


not like puzzle pieces

by sweetlyinfinite



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Angst, Babies!, Cheating, First Time, Firsts, Future Fic, Heavy Drinking, Kid Fic, Lingerie, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Underage Drinking, ngl i cried too much writing this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-31
Updated: 2016-05-15
Packaged: 2018-05-10 13:34:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 19
Words: 104,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5587900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweetlyinfinite/pseuds/sweetlyinfinite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>the firsts lead to their lasts, and then - well. </p><p>(Louis and Harry meet when they're six and seven; this is their lives beyond that point, fractioned.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. back to the street where we began

**Author's Note:**

> hi! i started this in 2013 and i decided to edit the shit out of it to make it a lot better! i will get it done eventually
> 
> enjoy; first chapter title from 'nine in the afternoon' by panic at the disco
> 
> p.s. might seem a bit wild now but harry has sex with nick at the end of the chapter so skip that one if you want; also! i posted this once before, but this is way better and it's likely you didnt read it anyway!

The first time Louis sees Harry he’s crying and Louis thinks he’s the prettiest thing he’s ever seen.

He asks his mum if the boy’s an angel and she laughs, tells him to go and ask himself. He’s seven and Harry’s six, and Louis finds himself away from his mum and smiling brightly at the crying boy in the playground who’s just looked up at him.

Louis trips over the boy’s leg, falling on his bare knees.

The boy’s lip quivers. “Oops,” he giggles quietly.

Louis shakes it off, grinning while he stands up. His knees are scraped but he just brushes them off. “Hi! I’m Louis and I wanted to ask if you’re an angel.”

The boy wipes his eyes and smiles, a wobbly tilt of lips. “I'm Harry. I don’t think I'm an angel.” Louis frowns at that, but Harry continues, "Maybe, though! I...I might be. Why did you think I was an angel?”

Louis blushes, suddenly shy, and stares at the ground. “You’re really pretty! Like a girl.”

Harry’s face scrunches up at that, so Louis hurries to apologise. Harry’s cheeks are red and Louis wonders if he got prettier. “It’s okay.”

“Why are you crying, then?” he wonders.

“They have my ball and they won’t give it back,” Harry states, scrubbing at his face again and pointing to a group of four boys currently kicking a football. His voice hiccups on several words, but Louis just ruffles the boy’s hair and sends a questioning glance to his mum. She’s smiling and chatting to a lady who might just be almost as pretty as Harry, holding a girl’s hand.

Louis turns back to Harry and smiles. “I’ll get it for you, angel.”

“Will you please, Louis? I...”

He nods and is blessed with Harry’s eyes lighting up like fireworks he saw last New Year’s Eve, a large smile gracing his face; Louis thinks this is the prettiest thing he’ll look at for a while. Louis then stomps over to the boys who he knows from school and he thinks they look stupid, laughing with each other.

“Excuse me, but that isn’t your ball,” he declares as he reaches them, glaring what he believes is fiercely. It mostly looks like he’s about to cry, but he raises his eyebrows when they don’t do anything and his face is similar to their parent's when they’re in trouble so it spurs them into action.

One stammers, “Is it yours? You can have it back, sorry!”

Louis snatches the ball from the boy who’s grasping it and growls. The boy jumps back. “Don’t touch this ball... Please?”

They all nod and a boy with blond hair apologises. Louis nods as well, smiling as he strolls back over to Harry who is looking up at Louis as though he’s some kind of superhero.

“Here you go, Harry.” Louis holds out the ball.

Harry takes it, mouth spreading in a broad grin. He’s missing two teeth and Louis chooses that moment to finally look at Harry’s eyes again. They're shining with happiness and admiration; Louis’ grin gets bigger and it’s not long until they’re both beaming, mouths stretched wide. Then, quite suddenly, Harry reaches up on his tiptoes to place a soft, thankful kiss to Louis’ pushed-up cheek.

“Thanks, Louis.”

It’s so sincere that Louis blushes again. “It’s okay. Those boys were being…morons.”

That’s when Jay decides to approach with the lady and her daughter, smiles on all their faces, and Louis feels a twinge in his stomach like he knows something bad is about to happen.

“Louis, love, it’s getting late and Harry, his mum and his sister have to go home to Cheshire,” Jay tells him softly.

“But,” he begins because Harry’s as pretty as an angel and he wants them to be _best_ friends. They can’t do that if he and his mum _leave_ , what is she thinking? Louis frowns deeply.

“We have to go too, and I’ve got Harry’s phone number so we can call whenever you want,” Jay responds, voice more solid and Louis knows what that means. Sometimes she’s the meanest...

“Okay, mum,” he sighs, turning back to where Harry's still smiling at him, eyes red around the rim from his earlier tears. “Bye, angel—I mean, Harry?”

Harry’s mum and Jay laugh at that, not knowing it is the start of something that won’t ever stop and all Harry says is, “Bye!”

***

The first time Louis cries about Harry he’s eight, and he’s just thrown his favourite teddy bear at Jay.

“Mum! Why did you have to—have to lose their phone number?” he bawls, tears streaming down his face. He pauses to cough, then his breath hitches in his throat and it’s stupid, why does he care so much? It’s only been a few months, but Louis’ so sad it aches in his belly and he doesn’t understand why. Harry’s only a boy, after all.

Louis sniffs and Jay moves forward, dropping to her knees in front of Louis, a sympathetic look staining her features. She opens her arms and Louis falls into them, a faint throbbing under his skin. Jay shushes him, breathing softly into his hair and murmuring nonsense, the swell of her pregnant belly touching Louis’.

The baby kicks and Louis gurgles, pushes his face into the curve of Jay’s neck. He breathes in the heavier scent of peach and white sugar with a soft, subtle note of a flowery perfume. She smells like home, like when he walks inside and the sun is streaming through the windows, splashing the furniture, the wooden floor panels, shining through the dust in the air to rest upon photos of Louis and Troy that Jay can’t bear to take down, if only for Louis’ sake.

Louis inhales deeply, breaths quivering, and then Jay says, “If it was meant to be...if you were meant to be friends, baby, you’ll meet again. Like fate, Louis, you’ll meet because fate will want you to.”

A few weeks later, his sister is born.

In later years when he feels sour he’ll think maybe fate is worthless anyway, that you have to will yourself to achieve something and not allow something else to do it for you. Except, fate works for him so he has to be thankful, regardless of his feelings in the darker moments.

***

The first time they hug is actually the second time they see each other, even if Louis is eleven now and Harry must be ten.

Louis’ walking home from school when he spots a glimpse of a boy who looks familiar but isn't wearing school uniform, so he decides to follow him. He pretends he’s an undercover spy and hums spy music under his breath as he rolls and dashes after the boy rather dramatically. When the boy reaches what appears to be his destination (a two-story house that seems really fancy) Louis finally gets who it is.

It’s the boy he met a few years ago; he saved his ball from Tom and some other boys at that park, before Lottie was born. Fizz too, but she was later. Louis tries to remember his name, but he can’t quite find the right one; Henry, Larry, Jerry?

“Harry?” he calls out hesitantly, giving up the pretence of him being a spy in favour of sprinting forwards a few metres towards the boy at his doorway to get a good look at him. The boy turns immediately and his name _is_ Harry because it’s _him_ , eyes wide and greener in the pale light of the afternoon. He's even prettier than Louis remembers, flashes of the boy in random glimpses of memory.

Louis doesn’t even think, just pounces on Harry; Harry wraps his arms around Louis automatically and he breathes, “Louis?” like it’s a miracle.

( _Fate_ , his mum will whisper later to Mark, when Louis’ buzzing with joy and he doesn’t eat the shepherd’s pie on his plate because he’s so busy smiling.)

***

The first time three things happen is a week after that and Louis and Jay are at Harry’s house for dinner. This is the first time they have dinner at one of their houses, the first time they hold hands and the first time they see each other naked (almost). Jay and Anne are laughing about something with wine colouring their lips; Harry’s step-dad is on a business trip (Louis isn’t sure what happened to the first one, but he knows Harry’s step-dad is the reason he lives in Doncaster now, so he’s a little bit thankful) and Gemma’s at a sleepover. Louis’ sisters are at home with Mark and Louis’ just flicked a pea at Harry who is seated next to him.

“Oi,” he frowns, the mischievous glint in his eye giving away his annoyed façade.

Louis knows something is about to happen a moment before it does but he forgets to move out of the way and suddenly there’s a blob of mash potato in his hair. Louis squeals involuntarily and responds by doing the same to Harry.

By the end they’re covered in mashed potato, pumpkin, peas and a sweet sauce coloured of cherries.

Everyone’s laughing and Anne tells the boys to go upstairs to Harry’s bedroom to wash off and change clothes. Harry impulsively grabs Louis’ hand to tug him up the staircase and Louis forgets to let go, or even want to let go.

In the bathroom, Harry takes off his shirt so he can wipe away the red sauce dripping down his front which looks like blood, as though maybe someone has slit his throat, and Louis can’t help but feel a little sick at the though. He takes off his shirt too but Harry has to help him get clean because Harry smeared a large portion of a mix of pumpkin and potato at the base of Louis’ neck and it’s slid halfway down his back.

Harry giggles and Louis laughs, swatting at his hands when they try to tickle under his arms. Harry pulls back his hands only to dive back in with more force, wiggling his fingers in Louis’ armpits. Louis’ so surprised that he gasps and starts flailing, trying to get Harry off him, but he only tickles harder. His stomach starts to hurt with how much he’s laughing and Harry finally lets him go. Louis catches a glimpse of them in the mirror—he’s red and huffing, out of breath, and his new friend is ducking his head a little, smiling and cheeks flushed a pleased pink.

Harry grasps his hand again to lead him to his bedroom, letting go when he has to rummage through his drawers to find them both t-shirts and pants. Harry ends up in a plain blue shirt, Louis in a long sleeved white one and they have matching grey sweatpants, neither bothering to put shoes back on.

Harry gives Louis a pair of thick woollen socks to pull on over his feet, because the floors are cold and Louis forgot to put socks on. The socks have little kittens on them and Louis nudges Harry who shrugs and says they’re his favourite.

There is a moment when they only have underwear on that Louis stops and wonders if Harry will ever get any prettier, stomach feeling fluttery. Harry must notice his pause because when Louis glances back at him there's a sweet pink blush high on his cheeks.

Louis also wonders if maybe his skin tastes sweet, too.

***

The first time they sleep together it’s two in the morning the next day, because Louis refused to leave and Harry has a spare bed in his room. And now Harry wakes to Louis whimpering quietly, curled up to make him look like a ball under his blankets across the room.

Harry lays there for a couple of moments, wondering if it would be okay for him to join Louis, because they are both boys after all and Louis might not be comfortable with that. But then a loud rumble of thunder and by a sharp crack of lightning makes Louis cry out softly. All it takes is a split second of hearing Louis in pain and Harry’s tripping out of his bed to go to his friend’s. Anything else doesn’t matter because Louis who helped him out all those years ago is crying and maybe he can help. Harry kicks the abandoned guitar on his way and hops around in the dark for a few moments, flapping his hands in an attempt to spread the pain or wave it away—something, he’s not actually sure.

When the pain subsides to a soft throb, he asks, “Louis? I... Can I sleep with you? Do you...mind?”

Louis shuffles out from under his blankets, his eyes filled with unshed tears and the night making them look black like ink. There is more lightning and Louis’ eyes have a moment of being blue and absolutely terrified.

“I, um, I—I, I’m, please.”

Unbeknownst to Harry, Louis feels like a princess being saved from the evil dragon.

So Harry climbs in. He’s facing Louis, so he can see tear tracks illuminated by the quiet wash of moonlight. Louis’ halted in his hiccupping, though he does flinch sometimes at a roar of thunder and Harry understands because he used to be afraid as well, until his mum soothed his fears with a story about the stars and the rain:

_Way before you and me, there were two stars who were in love. These two stars loved each other so much, and though they were so close the gap between them was still there, seemingly larger than the rest of the sky altogether. That didn’t matter to the stars, because to them there was a string that tied them together, that kept them in the sky and allowed them to be light. They promised each other that no matter what happened or how large the distance was between them, they would always love the other._

_Up above, fate was trying so hard to push the two stars together, though it was impossible, and they kept failing to make contact. Every time fate became more and more sad that the stars could not become one, because it was obvious they were supposed to be, just that something had happened and they had split, essentially the idea of soul mates. Do you know what soul mates are, love? They’re two people who belong together forever and ever, and even past then._

_One night the sun had moved behind the moon, when the stars should be in the sky and very bright, and because there was extra light in the sky the stars were not visible. The sun was only there for a few moments before fate pushed him away, and when the stars came back the two stars were no longer separate, instead they had merged and exploded. They lit up the sky for a few seconds with their love, much like the sun, before disappearing into the darkness of the sky._

_Fate was sad for just a moment, a few tears falling down to the earth. Then fate realised what had happened and shouted with joy, tears of joy now forming instead._

_Fate was so inspired by this flash of light caused by the joining of the two stars that it was decided should any two people in love want to be together that the tears of happiness should fall, the shouts of joy should be rumbled, and a light should strike the earth, all in favour of showing the world that somewhere there are two people who are in love so very much that wish to be near each other._

_So don’t be scared, Harry, love, the thunder and rain is just fate being so excited that there is love, real true love, and the lightning is just an imitation of when the two stars joined into one, a sole being bursting with light. If you look hard enough, you can probably see the stars shining brighter than the others._

Harry decides to tell Louis this and they end up giggling halfway through when Harry can’t remember the next bit and drawls out the word before trailing off. They try and make up alternate ending, each sillier than the last in their hushed whispers like if they are any louder someone will hear. After that Harry sings a song, a stupidly soft lullaby that makes Louis’ eyes droop shut, so it also becomes the first time Harry sings to Louis.

When Louis leaves several hours later, he’s wondering if maybe it’s okay to like boys, and that becomes another first, just one that Harry doesn’t know about.

***

The first time they nearly kiss it’s in Louis’ bedroom (at least, the first kiss that’ll count). They’ve been laughing at pictures of dogs for an hour and a half, leaning their chins on their hands right in front of a laptop, and they’re now twelve and thirteen and practically inseparable. They’re like stars in each other’s company and like the moon and the earth when they’re not because wherever they are they seem to gravitate towards each other.

Louis closes the lid when the battery gets low, pushing Jay’s laptop down the bed so it’s in a safer position. They lie on their sides facing each other, hands propping their heads up; their breaths smell like chocolate and Louis can hear popping candy in the back of Harry’s throat.

Louis blinks his eyes shut in a moment of tiredness, worn out from laughing so hard and too much wasted energy. He opens them when he feels warm breath on his cheek. He sees Harry's eyes first, happy and tired. Then he sees his nose, broad but not too broad, nostrils flaring a little. Then Louis finally looks at his lips, plump and cherry.

He’s glowing in the warm light of midday.

They lean in subconsciously and their eyelids are fluttering nearly at the same time, and then.

Then Harry sneezes on Louis.

Their eyes blink open and Louis looks so shocked that Harry starts to laugh.

***

The first time Louis tells Harry he maybe likes boys in the way he also likes girls too, they're both at the same secondary school. Harry’s in the year below Louis, though he's been deemed cool enough to sit with Louis’ friends, which become his friends by default with idle chatter and creating inside jokes.

Harry’s thirteen and Louis’ fourteen, fifteen in a few months, and all their other friends are getting girlfriends. Louis isn’t, and because Louis isn’t Harry isn’t. (He’s not copying Louis; he’s actually very independent, he just doesn’t want Louis to be alone—at least that’s what he tells the sharp jabs of distaste at the thought of girls hanging over Louis.)

“I think I like boys Haz. Like, _like_ boys—girls too, like.”

“Really?” Harry asks, eyes slightly wider because he’s just remembering all the times he’s changed in front of Louis, all the times they’ve shared a bed. It’s a little startling.

Louis’ face is flushed and, “Yeah.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

Up until now Harry’s been fine with getting naked in front of Louis, with sharing the same bed as him when they’re almost naked. The thing is, he can't find a reason that he shouldn’t be fine with it now; Louis’ still the same Louis and so what if he likes boys and girls? Harry doesn’t even know who he likes at the moment.

“Okay.”

“Yeah?” The surprise in Louis’ blue eyes is nearly palpable.

Harry smiles and he’s still the prettiest thing Louis’ seen, even with the dorky hair. “Sure. Love you, Lou.”

***

The first time Louis gets bullied for being bi isn’t necessarily what he’d call bullying (this is worse) and is two days after he comes out officially which is a year after he’s told his mum and Harry. He’s _fifteen_ now, and he felt like the time was right, like now would be better than later because what if something happens to him and he’ll never get to tell everyone? Like what if he gets hit by a car and he never gets to tell Harry he _like_ -likes him? If maybe people think that the girl he dated for a while was his true love and says something awful about their _love_ at his funeral?

So. There’s currently a group of seniors who look like they're about to kick his stomach and face and arms and legs and head and anywhere he exists, and Louis doesn’t know what to do because he never thought this’d happen to him. This only happens in the movies, right?

“Little faggot, what do you wanna do? Do you wanna suck my cock, huh, twink? Fucking fairy, you're disgusting, a fucking abomination,” a very large boy sneers and something deep inside Louis stutters; it’s maybe his heart.

And Louis may be fifteen and bisexual, but he’s not weak, at least not vocally, so he sneers back, “Oh, what, I’m the abomination? Have you seen your hair? You’ve shaved off the front and left the back and you look like a fucking fish, honestly.” The boy looks taken aback and Louis rolls his eyes, proud until the end. “What, are you hurt? Do you want mummy to come and kiss it better? Don’t get upset because you look like a fucking troll. I’d never suck your dick, by the way. There’s probably nothing to suc—”

Then the boy’s fist is flying out and colliding with his head, and he’s falling and falling and falling, which is not at all like the movies; he’s supposed to kick their arses or summat, not feel pain in every part of his body. There are more hands and feet, and Louis aches and burns in such a way that feels like he’s been thrown off a cliff into raging seas. The sound of a stalling car is filling his head along with the blood in his mouth and the voices are still swearing.

There’s a voice, fierce and loud and intense. It sounds very much like Harry and Louis nearly dies because Harry’s his _angel_.

“What the fuck are you doing?” he shouts, and he’s fourteen but he doesn’t sound that young and then there are some other noises ( _ah fuck, lads, let’s run, can't go back_ ). Louis doesn’t know what’s happening because his eyes are squeezed shut and he’s curling himself into a foetal position on the hard ground. He might be crying but he can’t really tell, can only think of how he should’ve been prepared and how pretty Harry was that very first day.

Really, that’s all Louis ever seems to think about; Harry’s bottle sea-green eyes opening glassily as he wakes up, Harry’s stupid fringe, Harry’s pink lips, Harry’s cheeks flushed with the chill of the air, Harry eating pancakes with lemon slices and sugar, Harry watching cartoons on Sunday mornings, Harry teasing Gemma when she stares after her crush on the bus home. _Harry_ , it is, mostly.

A few moments later someone’s there, caressing his hair, whispering, “Louis, babe, please open your eyes. It’s mum, it’s me, baby, please, it’s okay.”

 “Wh-where’s Harry?” Louis stutters out.

Harry’s there, hugging him, saying, “Lou, Louis, it’s me, we’re okay,” and his chest bursts along with any sliver of pride he has left because then he's sobbing into his best friend’s shoulder.

His mum is touching them both very gently, coercing them to stand up and get Louis in the car to take him home. Harry doesn’t let go of him, meaning Jay has to buckle them both in. Louis’ hands are shaking when he manages to pull away on the drive and each breath in hurts, but he just lets his body shudder. Harry grabs onto his hand and holds it with two of his, his palms clammy and soft.

It turns out they really only left a few bruises, but even when they fade in time the bruises are more than skin deep and Louis feels them for a long while afterwards.

***

The first time Harry thinks about Louis’ lips is a week after that. Blueberry syrup is staining his mouth a purple shade from the snow cone, his lavender lips framing such a gorgeous, crooked smile.

From then on, it’s hard for Harry to stop. (Louis’ lips are his addiction.)

***

The first time they don’t talk to each other for a week after they’ve become friends is when Louis is sixteen and tells Harry he has to study so he can’t go the movies with him. Harry says he’ll study with him but Louis counters this by saying Harry’s a distraction and he won’t get anything done with him there.

Harry tells him fine, he’ll see him later, and he doesn’t see Louis later because he avoids him like his cat avoids water. Harry finds out that Louis was really going on a date with a boy he met over the weekend when he was working, which would’ve been fine except Louis _lied_.

Harry doesn’t reply to Louis’ chat messages, doesn’t answer his phone calls, doesn’t talk to him at school; he doesn’t even look at him for the entire week, except for the one time Louis grabs his jaw and forces Harry’s head around to look at Louis’ face. Harry had just stared blankly, turned up the volume on his iPod and waited for Louis to let him go before he stood up and walked away, going to the bathrooms and just breathing.

(It isn’t a good week for either of them, but that’s also the first time Louis kisses another boy:

“Can I kiss you?” the boy asks, fluttering his eyelashes sweetly.

“Yeah,” Louis breathes and the boy is wet and apricot—it’s just like kissing a girl but with the brushing of a sharper jaw, and when they pull away from each other Louis may just wish the eyes he saw were green not a blue similar to his own.

“So, next week I’ll pick you up Friday?” Jack (the boy who isn’t Harry) questions with a grin as bright as the streetlamps illuminating the street.

“Of course,” Louis responds, smiling back a smile that makes his eyes shine and his face light up but punctures a hole in his chest.)

(Jack is the first boy to break Louis’ heart.)

Eventually, Harry goes to Louis’ to demand an apology to get over this dumb fight and Louis meets him halfway, stumbling over _sorry_ ’s like they were a new word he’d learned.

***

The first time they get drunk together is fun and a little frightening for Louis _._ It’s at some stupid school party, only a few months after Louis’ first kiss, but it’s insane. Harry turns out to be quite a lightweight and maybe it’s because he’s still fucking _fifteen_ but he’s sparkly-eyed, red-mouthed and pink-cheeked within the first hour, smile wide enough it should be hurting his face. They’re surrounded by people their age and older, red cups and alcohol and sweaty people dancing and Harry’s in love with it all.

Louis has to drag Harry out at one a.m. because Jay wanted them home an hour before, and even though Louis is pleasantly buzzed he has enough sense to know she’ll be mad and Harry’ll be hungover. Harry’s giggling and biting his lips too red, eyes bright and alive. They stumble home to Louis’ slowly, Louis trying to hurry Harry’s slow dawdle into something quicker. Eventually they get there; just before Louis opens the door, he pauses and turns around to tell Harry to be quiet, in case he’d forgot he has four sisters, a mother and a step-father inside.

Harry’s staring at him and then he grins, cherry red and gorgeous, and steps forward. Louis steps back and Harry continues until Louis’ back is on the door and Harry’s body is pressed up against his. Louis takes a moment to notice that Harry’s taller than the last time he checked, then flicks his eyes back to Harry’s face.

Harry’s not grinning anymore. His eyes look a little wild and his eyelids glow golden under the invading wash of moonlight. They flutter, casting ebony shadows across his cheeks which are still flushed heavily, probably not just because of the cold biting at their skin. Harry’s breath smells like beer and Louis thinks his lips may be hovering just over his own. He’s wishing Harry would fall forward just a little so he could finally know what he tastes like, feels like. Almost as if he knows and wants to tease, Harry tilts his head and goes for a cheek kiss instead. It’s sloppy and wet, sticky with liquor and missing Louis’ cheek in favour of the corner of his mouth.

Harry sighs and fumbles to clutch at Louis’ hand. “You’re the best, Lou. I love you.”

Louis’ breathing deep and slow. His tongue slips out to wet his lips and tastes Harry in the corner. “Thank you, I suppose. Love you too.”

***

The first time Harry does something about the questions he has involving his sexuality that have plagued him ever since he was thirteen is a long year later. By then Louis has a ‘secret’ girlfriend and has been distancing himself from Harry and forming closer friendships with their other friends such as Niall (straight as Harry pretends to be) and Zayn (straight but _bendy_ ).

Harry knows Louis has a secret girlfriend, but she isn’t a secret to _anyone_ else in their school, just Harry very exclusively, and this makes Harry angrier than the distance, the lack of phone calls and chat messages and even waves in the fucking hall.

He doesn’t understand _why_ everyone is trying to hide the fact Louis has a girlfriend, but more importantly he doesn’t understand why he wasn’t the second person Louis told (Louis’ mum would have been the first). Harry _had_ figured they were the best of best friends, that it was the two of them against everything else, but. Apparently not.

Obviously somewhere along the bumpy fucking road they’ve travelled down to get to the point they are now, Harry has missed the memo that he and Louis aren’t the kind of friends to tell each other everything anymore. Or, come to think of it, anything.

And _shit_ , that really hurts Harry; it hurts him enough that he barely feels upset when the girlfriend he had for three weeks breaks up with him (she was self-centred in the worst way and kept talking about how much she wanted to kiss a boy in his twelfth year). With her gone and happily trailing after the boy she so very much fancies, Harry indulges in some good old fashioned moping and wallowing.

It’s following the helpless wallowing that the thoughts of Louis’ lips begin to creep back into his head. They’re so constant and always at the front of his mind that when Louis approaches him at school after their fourth time of not talking to each other for a week, Harry finds himself glaring at him. Louis’ lips take up too much fucking space in his head to be insignificant now, to be random thoughts that make Harry think about kissing them, and fuck that. Fuck that.

“What do you want, Louis?”

Louis scowls back, rubbing at the stupid spikes of his hair between his fingers which Harry will come to know as a nervous gesture. Louis’ eyes flash with something, something sad and awful, before they harden again. He straightens his back a bit and he huffs. “Harry, can you stop staring at me like you can’t wait for me to talk to you and you're mad that I won’t? It’s really creeping me out, like. Sorry, mate.”

Harry stands immediately because he’s _done_ , and he doesn’t know if he ever wasn’t to begin with. If Louis wants to be an even bigger dick than he has been all week, if he wants to make an arse of himself then Harry isn’t going to hang around and watch him shatter every inch of their friendship.

“You know what, Louis? You can go fuck yourself. Just because you have some fit, mysterious girlfriend who everyone else knows about but me doesn’t mean that I'm looking at you because I’m waiting for you to talk to me. I’m not desperate enough for that, Louis. I don’t know what you’re doing or what you think you’re doing, Lou, but you’re acting like a right prick. So, you know, fuck you and all that. Or, rather, don’t.”

Louis' left dazed in the most shocking way and his mouth parts because Harry doesn't swear, not unless he's stubbed his toe or bitten his tongue (also because the _Lou_ hurts more than anything else he said because it slipped out and it was _venomous_ ).

Harry runs his eyes over Louis’ body, flicking back up to his face before he sighs and leaves Louis with his mouth gaping open. He walks away from him and over to find Nick.

Nick’s the only other ‘out’ person in their school Harry knows of; he’s tall and has funny hair with soft skin and a snappy personality. Harry finds him in the school’s main quad, leaning against an orange brick wall surrounded by people Harry thinks of as his followers who are all indie and hipster-posh and _better than you_.

The sun is halfway across the sky, bathing Nick in light, and he may not be as gorgeous as Louis is in the sun but he’s nearly halfway there. Harry has thoughts of every kindness Nick’s ever shown him swimming through his mind, every moment they’ve spent together where Harry thought _huh_. (Harry looked it up on the family computer and it told him he was _pansexual_. His stomach twisted, his breath caught in his throat giddily as he mouthed the word soundlessly because there was a name for it and other people felt it too.)

Nick spots Harry walking towards him before anyone else does and, okay, it looks a little weird because Harry’s growing his hair out and there are a few springy curls surrounding his face and his face is in a soft smile and he’s moving very quickly. He raises an eyebrow in a perfect, plucked arch. A few of Nick’s friend’s turn to Harry, the _better than you_ look is immediately carved into their faces.

When he’s close enough Nick’s mouth opens to say something, but Harry’s lips are on his and swallowing the sound before it can escape, along with a surprised sort of squeak. It takes Nick a moment to realise what's happening before a low growl rumbles through his throat and he grabs Harry’s hands which have moved to rest on his hips. He flips them so that Harry’s being shoved against the wall as Nick curves his back and takes, tasting like cigarettes and cranberries. The way he kisses reminds Harry of newspapers with the pages creasing and crinkling, smooth and familiar yet entirely new.

He also reminds Harry that newspapers can be ripped into perfect horizontal strips and he wonders whether or not he will be left in the same way, ready to be shoved under a pile of sticks to burn.

Harry makes a small sound, helpless and needy, because apparently he likes being pushed around. But, not one to particularly like losing control, he takes hold of Nick’s roaming wrists and then Harry has Nick’s hands pinned to the wall and he’s shoving a leg between Nick’s, and. Well.

Louis stares across the distance as Nick wraps his fingers around Harry’s fingers and pulls him away. He watches as they disappear away from prying eyes, but then the image is blurred because there are tears in Louis’ eyes and nothing’s _okay_ , as if it ever was.

Harry gets his first handjob from a boy and leaves the school’s dirty toilets with his first boyfriend. From then on, Nick dresses Harry in tight shirts and tight pants and fixes his hair up occasionally and sometimes pairs it with those awfully fake hipster-nerd glasses, but Harry looks good in them, so he wears them when he feels like it. Whatever. At least Nick isn't stealing parts of him he’s not ever going to give back.

(Nick’s only going to use them.)

***

The first time Harry has anal sex, Nick is as good as he can be. He talks him through it, rasping out pratty things Harry doesn’t pay attention to. Nick spends a long time prepping him, using his long fingers to stretch Harry out. It burns, but every time Harry makes a sound of pain he adds more lube and when Nick finally pushes in Harry doesn’t cry like he thought he would. Then Nick starts _moving_ and Harry isn't sure how to handle such a good feeling so he scrunches his eyes shut and lets a throaty noise escape his mouth, hands reaching up to grab at Nick’s hips and squeeze.

Nick’s hips stop moving six and three quarter minutes later, his come flooding the condom and shouting out so loud Harry is thankful Nick’s parent’s aren’t home. Harry comes too, with Nick’s fingers circled around his cock, in bright static waves of pleasure and thick ropes of come to paint their chests as though they’re two canvases.

It’s good, it is, but the thing is ever since Harry shut his eyes he’s been seeing Louis’ face against his eyelids, Louis’ thighs and his lips and his teeth and his stomach and his arms, and Harry became lost in the idea that it was Louis moving in and out of him.

He’s just glad he was too overwhelmed with sensations that he didn’t say Louis’ name out loud.

So.


	2. feeling as good as love, you could, you can

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy new year! also, lol, this is just a continuation i dont know how frequent my updates will be but i figured the nick thing needed to be resolved

The first time Harry doesn’t get a _better than you_ look is on the Monday after first sleeping with Nick, when he receives filthy _you’re such a dirty whore_ looks instead, which aren't an improvement. Nick’s friends aren’t really accepting.

Louis also looks like he’s been stabbed and refused hospitalisation.

Harry learns the whole school knows he’s no longer an anal virgin and that Louis’ girlfriend left him with a sweet _I’m sorry, but I don’t think I like cock, Lou. At least, not yours_.

 _So_.

Louis’ birthday comes and goes and Nick is Harry’s first New Year’s kiss.

After that...

***

The first time Harry is single after Nick, he learns that he’s lost some things throughout that relationship.

Harry lost a bit of his self-confidence, a tad of his ability to love and trust whole-heartedly, his virginity, and a portion of his heart and mind and _soul_. (Basically, he loses a lot.)

He and Louis haven’t spoken for a few months, the entire span of _Nick_ , but they do after Harry realises what he’s given away. His fingers reach for his new phone and he rings Louis who is number one on speed dial, even after everything. When he hears Louis’ voice, Harry starts blubbering and he can't stop. He sobs about Nick being a cheating bastard, about walking into his house to see him fucking into some other boy face down on the couch, and Louis calls him angel.

Louis sits in the family car and breathes, twitching yet frozen, for a long time after Harry rings him. He stays until he gets mad, _furious_ , so much so that he hunts Nick down—he’s at his house whish wasn’t unexpected. It smells like sex and Nick grins like a fucking twat; Louis punches his face so hard that it’s like the grin was never even there.

Nick falls back, shouting, “What the fuck, Louis?”

Louis shakes his head, resisting the urge to do more and just turns away. He shuts the front door on his way out and it feels more symbolic than he meant it.

It hurts, of course it does, both physically and emotionally not even including the weird ache in his chest that hasn’t left for weeks on end. However, Louis knows that Harry’s waiting for him and he’s worth more than the bruise on his knuckles and the sense of fulfilment that flooded his core when his fist made contact with Nick’s skin.

***

The first time they kiss could be better (really, it’s the second, because their first had been at eleven and twelve and that one doesn’t count, much). It happens after the same day that Harry breaks up with Nick and Louis’ knuckles are raw. Harry’s mouth is still wet with a fresh flood of tears at seeing Louis, Louis’ eighteen and Harry’s still only _sixteen_ , birthday looming.

What happens is this: Louis drives to Harry’s house and Harry answers. Louis has trouble breathing because even though he looks like a mess, Louis has only seen glimpses of this boy over a span of _months_ and he’s right there, in the flesh, and Louis isn't sure if this is real or not.

With red, puffy lips and tear-streaked cheeks, Harry looks like an angel, and Louis can’t really stop himself when he leans forward and presses Harry softly against his door frame.

Louis is warm and safe, syrupy and maybe like liquid gold, and Harry is salt and regret, a steady flow of melancholy, and together they feel limitless, even when their teeth clash and it’s too messy.

It’s languid but they’re young, every movement is a new sensation to be savoured.

It’s a little awful, too; Harry’s heart is broken and Louis’ is chipped around the edges, but the kiss is full of compassion and heartache. Louis’ hands are cupping Harry’s jaw, even the throbbing one, and his mouth is dry and open, and it’s _theirs_.

It’s also a little funny, because Louis licks the roof of Harry’s mouth and Harry pulls away because it’s sensitive under Louis’ tongue and, “What are you doing?”

Louis wipes his mouth. “I read somewhere that licking the roof of your mouth makes the need to sneeze go away.”

Harry blinks for a moment, considers, then remembers the first almost kiss and smiles, big and dimply, the red of his eyes seeming irrelevant to the bottle-green brightness of his irises.

Theirs.

***

The first time they tell their mums it’s a week and a half after they kiss.

They're both nervous but Anne is grinning before they’ve said anything, Jay smiling into her tea cup.

Louis frowns, flicks his new fringe out of his eyes, but then he looks to Harry and there are dimples in his cheeks, so Louis grins too.

Harry goes for it, of course he does, he just grabs Louis’ hand and says, “Mum, Jay, we’re dating. That’s all.”

Louis’ blushing all of a sudden under his mother’s knowing gaze and then Anne is crying. Harry lets go of Louis’ hand to hug his mum, and Anne hugs him tightly, her little boy all grown up and on his way to being in love. She mumbles as much into his ridiculous curls and Harry goes a soft shade of red, all the while Jay starts laughing delightedly and tells Louis she’s so proud of him.

Harry pulls away and he’s crying too and Louis’ actually in love—has known so since the butterflies in his stomach wouldn’t go away—so he grabs Harry’s hand and tugs him over for a hug. Harry laughs and shoves his face into Louis’ neck; Louis sighs shakily and laughs gently along with him.

Anne and Jay are talking in the background of Louis’ awareness, but Harry is crying happily and is so warm and so soft. What does anything matter but him?

***

The first time they say _i love you_ and mean it like a promise is under a lot of things, but mostly the stars through the broken roof of an old barn. They’d discovered the barn back when they were becoming best friends and snow covered everything; they're pressing tightly into each other’s warm bodies in the same position Harry held Louis in through the thunderstorm all those years ago.

Now, though, instead of being afraid of thunder they're shivering against each other due to the chill in the air that their thick blankets don’t shield them from, and they're cramped onto a thin, old, worn mattress they purchased from a charity shop and the mattress lives on the second story of the abandoned barn for nights like this.

Louis tries to snuggle his face against Harry’s warm chest and as he does so he feels Harry’s eyes on him, so he pauses and flicks his eyes to Harry’s.

Harry takes a breath, his eyes excited, and laughs nervously. His eyes are bright and he smiles at Louis, warm and beautiful. “I love you, Louis.”

Even though Louis already knew his breath still catches in his throat and his soul is shimmering sunlight, glossy waves of happiness. “I love you too, Haz.”

Louis moves up to rest his thighs around Harry’s hips so he can kiss his pale, pretty throat and stain the smooth skin with dark and wet bites that’ll be there on show for everyone to see tomorrow. Harry gasps and arches into Louis’ body, letting Louis’ breath skim over his neck and slip under his layers. His hands mimic the action, sliding under the hem of Louis’ thick jumper to touch the burning skin of his back, soft and smooth. Louis’ hips move back to get more of Harry’s hands on him, ignoring the chill trying to worm it’s way between them—Harry just laughs and spreads his fingers before dragging them down to the waistband of Louis’ baggy track-pants to hold his hips. His fingers curve, digging into the skin, fingertips pushing not hard enough to bruise but almost.

It’s not much of a stretch that they love each other like all the clichés say, when Louis’ breath is hot on Harry’s mouth and Harry’s nerves feel as though they’re on fire.

 _Of course_ they love each other, because if they didn’t they’d be the silliest fools in the world, because the two of them _fit_ together, like superglue and anything, and heads and pillows, hot chocolate and the winter’s obnoxious chill, and not like puzzle pieces because there could be a thousand different sets of the same puzzle with the same pieces that could replace the other, and these two boys don’t have any other matching pieces.

***

The first time they go ‘all the way’ they’re seventeen and eighteen and it’s everything, nothing; _nothing_ , god, it’s golden.

After a near half hour of prep, foreplay, muttered words and sweet kisses and sucked cocks, Harry’s moving in and out of Louis with slow, deep thrusts too smooth for a seventeen year old but he’s managing to keep the pace. The next time they have sex it’s heat and impact, but the first time is so full of _love_ that Louis nearly chokes on the feelings drowning the air. He doesn’t though, the only thing he chokes on are his stuttered breaths and sweetly muttered _fuck_ s.

It’s quiet and achingly tender, but above all it’s _them_ ; Louis losing his breath and his thighs  aching from being pushed apart for such a long period of time, Harry’s breath fanning over Louis’ collarbones and his arms aching from holding himself up. They’re in Harry’s bed, too small for this so they’re pressed together too closely and Louis still finds himself gripping Harry’s hips to bring him closer. He can’t believe they’re doing this and it feels so good, even with the twinges of pain every now and then when Harry moves the wrong way or when he slips out and has to push back in. Louis’ stomach muscles keep clenching and unclenching, he’s sweating and over-heated but he doesn’t think he ever wants it to end.

Harry leans down to kiss him, lips puffy and sore, but Louis kisses back eagerly. Their teeth click before Louis slips his tongue out to touch Harry’s mouth; Harry moans low in his throat. It rumbles down his body, reaching Louis’ dick where it’s trapped between their stomachs. It makes the pressure build a lot more quickly and he chokes on the breath he was trying to suck in. Harry’s next thrust hits Louis’ prostate.

His limbs tense and he freezes for a second before he shudders out a soft cry, wrapping his legs around Harry’s body to rest at the bottom of his spine and pull, urge him faster and closer, right there, oh god. Harry moves faster, forgetting his deep thrusts to make Louis make more of the same sounds. Louis can feel Harry’s body so tense, so hot, moving heavy and hard inside of him and all it takes is a few pulls of his dick before he’s coming.

His mind is white, sparking veins and new feelings while his body shudders through it. He manages to croak, “Harry, come on.”

Harry comes with Louis clenching tightly around him, spilling hotly into the condom.

Louis can feel it and he also feels his cock weakly trying to react, leaving him shivering and over-stimulated. Louis doesn’t say anything, though he wants to tell Harry he loves him. He doesn’t say anything and when Harry pulls out, it stings and he knows the skin is raw. Harry doesn’t say anything but he kisses Louis’ skin and it says enough without words, Louis bringing Harry’s head up to kiss his mouth. Gentle and intimate, Louis never knew kissing someone could make him feel like this—safe, warm.

Harry brings back a flannel and wipes them both down, throwing the cloth in his washing basket before settling back into bed next to Louis. Harry’s skin is cold from the air and the water but Louis clings to him and warms him up quickly enough while they exchange soft banter. Harry says Louis is his sweet little princess and Louis swats his arm, laughing. He doesn’t stop to wonder why, just kisses Harry deeply. Kisses like that are destined for a lifetime.

***

The first time they have sex at school it’s the sixteenth time.

Louis had woken up horny. There wasn’t time for a quick wank in the shower, and he’d seen somewhere that cold water actually intensifies sexual arousal. He should probably stop reading things on the internet if he wants to live a normal life.

He rushes to school, thinking about the old man across the road when he yells at Louis for mowing his _own_ lawn if he starts to get a little bit hard—his thoughts drift to memories of Harry’s lips and then he’s almost lost in them.

And Harry, the bastard he seems to be, has a pair of tight black jeans on. He smiles at Louis as he reaches their table and Louis—

Louis’ dick hardens in his trousers and Harry’s smile turns into a smirk, a dirty smirk with red blowjob lips and a pink, pink tongue. He’s noticed, of course, and Louis’ neighbour does not quell the onslaught of pure, teenage boy arousal.

By lunch, Louis can’t handle it. He’s young, all right?

He grabs Harry’s hand and doesn’t bother to tell their friends where they’re going. Harry asks though, and Louis’ response is, “So you can fuck me.”

Harry nods as though he knew and the smirk is back. Louis hates it but he can see it wrapped around his cock tomorrow night and that’s all he needs not to.

When they get to the boys’ bathroom, Louis is so thankful it’s empty and doesn’t smell too bad. He locks the door and as soon as he turns around he puts his hands on Harry’s shoulders and jumps up. Harry puts his hands on Louis’ thighs and they kiss like this is the first time all over again, intense and young and on fire.

Harry places Louis on the space between sinks, on the island countertop which is entirely too fancy to belong at their school, and thrusts his tongue into a mouth that’s hot and wet and verging on desperate. Louis lets his own tongue touch Harry’s once, twice, even sucks on the tip, before pushing it back into his mouth. Louis swipes his tongue along Harry’s bottom lip and then bites down, carefully but not at all and a gorgeous sound comes from his throat that Louis falls in love with.

Harry moves his hands from Louis’ thighs to his waist where he doesn’t bother to unbutton his trousers before he shoves them down forcefully. Louis arches his hips up so they slide over his arse and down his legs, boxers too. They stop at his shoes and Harry isn’t bothered by this, just wanted to get to Louis’ prick, so he moves his mouth to Louis’ jaw, fingers kneading Louis’ thighs and slowly creeping closer to where he wants to be. He scrapes his teeth gently along the skin, before he reaches Louis’ ear and he nibbles the lobe, planting kisses down Louis’ throat and nipping randomly as he goes.

Louis gasps as Harry does so, his fingers fumbling with the buttons on Harry’s shirt, abandoning those quickly before he moves to the button and zip on Harry’s jeans. Harry lets him fumble as he begins to suck a bruise at the base of Louis’ throat. That makes Louis stop and breathe heavily because it reminds him, “Lube, Harry. D’you have lube?”

Harry pulls off the unfinished mark and his eyes are glazed over. “No,” he says slowly, “no, but I was thinking I could suck you.”

Oh. _Oh,_ Louis thinks and his dick is definitely on board with that plan.

Louis slides off the bench and shuffles them into a stall, ignoring the toilet as Harry unbuttons his jeans and drops to his knees. He’s so fucking beautiful, hair curled and lips pink, eyes bright and mouth curving into a wicked smile. Louis feels faint so he backs into the door, leans against it and watches as Harry’s eyes grow dark. He licks his lips and moves closer to Louis. The contrasts of the red on Harry’s cheeks with the paleness of his skin, the while tiles and Louis’ tan skin is arousing in the worst way, making Louis cry out at the sensations he feels.

Harry mouths at the skin on Louis’ hip where he left a mark only a few days prior and it’s already faded. Teeth nipping, Louis grabs Harry’s hair to let him know he’s really not going to make it if Harry keeps up with this. It makes Harry smirk below Louis, a face that Louis licks his lips at right before Harry takes hold of his dick with one hand and lets the head move past the ‘o’ he makes with his lips. Harry’s hand is moving fast, curling and squeezing just at the right moments to make Louis lose his breath. The suction of Harry’s mouth, a soft wet heat, his hollowed cheeks, and it takes everything Louis has not to buck forward.

Harry’s free hand moves to Louis’ hip, tugging him because he knows Louis, they’ve done this enough that he knows what Louis likes and today he needs to get him off as quickly as possible.  Louis pants and allows himself to rock his hips in short strokes, fascinated with watching the way he disappears into Harry’s mouth. Harry’s tongue is moving around his dick like he’s magic and it’s making Louis lose awareness faster than it ever has before.

Some boys clutter into the toilets and Louis’ hand flies to his mouth, teeth digging in as Harry pulls off to grin at him shortly. He shuffles forward on his knees, jerking Louis in a fast rhythm which becomes rough after his spit dries. He’s never had it so dry and pleasure rolls through his whole body, mouth gaping around his hand.

The boys finish up and Louis moves his hand to his own hair, gripping tight. His hips finally snap forward to brush his dick against Harry’s mouth, but Harry’s lips open and Louis slides right in and it’s _everything_. Harry gets to work, then, swallowing him tight and fast, using his tongue to make Louis squirm in the dirty bathroom stall.

Louis feels filthy, too hot and trapped inside his own body. He’s aware of his orgasm coiling at the base of his spine, tighter and tighter, and he tenses, stomach muscles quivering as he feels it start to wash over him. It’s quicker than he’s ever got off before and he only just manages to stop himself from making too much noise by shoving his fingers in his mouth and moaning around them, come spurting onto his boyfriend’s tongue. Harry lets it spill into his mouth for a few moments before he replaces his lips with his hand and spits the come on the ground, taste bitter and salty.

It only takes a few pulls on his own dick before he’s groaning against Louis’ hip, come in both hands.

Harry looks wrecked, flushed and come covered with his eyes hazy and smile slutty where he looks up at Louis, sitting back on his heels. Louis swallows loudly and tries to remember how to breathe.

***

The first time Harry crams for exams with Louis they spend until three am with their noses in text books.

The first hour (just after seven) is spent giggling into each other’s sides as they read a story which is supposed to scare them but really just makes them wonder how people are so ridiculous to even have thought up such things.

The second hour they watch Grease, Louis nipping at Harry’s neck the whole time.

The third hour they get started, having had enough time procrastinating. Louis studies something for his English exam, occasionally asking Harry questions about Shakespeare’s enigmatic sexuality and whether or not Macbeth was believable in any circumstance. Harry does an entire chapter of his algebra questions, only asking Louis stupid questions like how much eight times seven was and did he think x squared times two hundred-and-twenty-five would actually apply to any real situation, especially when replacing letters with numbers of things, names.

The fourth hour Harry shuffles down to the kitchen to make them cups of tea. When he makes it back upstairs Louis is asleep with his face against his notes. Harry sets down his cup and whispers Louis’ name in his ear, soft and warm, gentle, until Louis stirs with a groan. Harry smiles like his voice, softly, and Louis blinks up at him.

Louis mumbles, “’M so lucky to have you, Haz.”

The fifth hour is spent listening to the seconds tick by on the grandfather clock downstairs in Louis’ living room. It’s also spent trying not to cry, because it’s too bloody _late_ on a Thursday night to be studying.

The sixth hour Louis attacks Harry in his chair, kissing his protests away until they're moving away from the chairs and onto the bed which is covered in books and leaflets and folders, and there the kisses become deeper, more intimate, and then they lay there and sigh.

The seventh hour Harry urges Louis to get back up and move back to his desk, but Louis groans and covers his eyes with his arm. Harry tests him on his spelling then, with flash cards full of hard words that Harry isn't excited to have to know in a year.

The eighth hour Louis’ back at his desk beside Harry, scrawling messy notes from various webpages. Harry is rotating between sighing like he’s just seen the future and it involves a lot more assignments and bopping his head to music he makes with his pen on Louis’ desk and his English work.

The ninth and final hour is a slow decline from hard work (as hard as one can be working at three am) to nothing. Harry falls asleep with his pen still in his hand and Louis rouses him gently, guiding him to the bed slowly with whispered assurances and warm, dry presses of lips against his ear.

When they’re in bed, drifting off to sleep at last, Louis realises _he_ didn’t do any of his maths work despite telling Harry to keep going all throughout the third hour whenever he’d moan and smack his face down onto Louis’ desk. Louis doesn’t have the effort to react accordingly, merely snuggles further under the covers and pushes his face into Harry’s shoulder.

***

The first time Louis finishes school Harry cries—not big, blubbery tears but his breath caught in his throat and tears swelling up in his eyes as he watches the seniors walk on stage. It’s in alphabetical order and Louis’ somewhere near the end, but behind them is a montage of ever-changing photographs for people to look at as they come on, from their very first year at any school, to the first year of secondary school, to earlier in the year for school pictures.

Harry’s crying and Jay’s crying next to him, holding his hand tightly and occasionally bringing up a tissue to dab at her eyes. Lottie’s next to Jay, a video camera in her hands, Gemma’s next to Harry, her phone held between her fingers that sometimes tilts towards Harry’s wet face. Anne is next to Gemma, scolding Gem quietly under her breath for making fun of Harry’s tears while there are tears in her own eyes. Robin’s next to Anne, holding a large, professional camera in his hands, a smile as big as the moon on his face. Next to Lottie is Dan, Jay’s boyfriend, and his smile must be the size of the entire galaxy. Fizzy’s next to him, flicking through her phone and her lower lip between her teeth to stop it from quivering. The twins are next to her, whispering while they wait for Louis, and Mark is next to them at the end of the row with his phone out ready to start filming.

Really, everyone’s crying to some extent, whether it’s Harry’s helpless blubbering or Lottie’s shimmering eyes. It’s also awful because Zayn and Liam and Niall have already been on stage and are now officially done. It’s silly to be upset but Harry’s just so proud of them all.

And then. Then he’s there, Louis’ there with the spotlight on his face and body, and he’s not crying, he isn't, but then he spots his _family_ , his life summed up in a few people, and his face crumples for a moment. Harry sees and starts shaking his head, using his free hand to shoot Louis a thumbs up and he coughs past a laugh, and Louis’ answering grin is wobbling and bright. Robin is snapping pictures and everyone’s smiles couldn’t be wiped off for anything at that exact moment.

In the montage, behind Louis, Louis’ picture from nursery is on screen and he’s beaming, with rosy cheeks and lots of teeth, and a straight fringe which makes Harry gurgle and Jay squeeze his hand tighter. As someone lists all the things he’s done over the years, everyone in the crowd laughs and the man has to stop for a moment, because the picture of Louis from his first year of secondary shows his hair in dumb spikes, his smile a little smaller but still there, and Harry remember that, remembers telling him on the phone that morning that he should spike his hair up because it looked good that way. At the time it did but Louis, real Louis, puts his hands over his face and laughs too.

No one on stage says anything because they're waiting for the next picture.

It’s a picture of Louis and Harry, one they’d had taken as ‘family’ photos which the school offers after school pictures; Harry’s arms are around Louis’ waist like they’re taking a picture for prom but really it’s just Harry hugging him for the photo. Harry’s crouched down so he can tuck his chin over Louis’ shoulder and his hands are interlaced over Louis’ chest. Harry’s pulling a dorky smile that’s too wide with too much teeth, and Louis’ smile is pure _fond_. His eyes are crinkled, soft and so blue; his pointy teeth are digging into his bottom lip and his cheeks are tainted such a darling rose colour that the photographer said he wanted to paint his walls the same shade.

Louis groans and Harry grins because this photo is in the foyer to his house, Louis’ kitchen on his fridge, on Louis’ corkboard full of photos of them and in Gemma’s supposed-to-be-ironic-but-really-isn’t scrapbook of times when Harry and Louis proved to be dorks in love, the first photo dating back to 2008; the picture is in Jay’s wallet and Anne’s glove box and on Lottie’s phone, _everywhere_. They’re fairly sure even Zayn had the picture reprinted into a polaroid shot to put on his hipster ( _it’s not hipster, Lou, fuck’s sake! Your boyfriend probably has a hipster blog, look at him! He’s putting a daisy crown on your head right now! It’s just a blog, fuck off_ ) blog.

The audience makes an array of sweet sounds and Louis rolls his eyes at Harry, lips tugged up into a large grin. Harry sends a returning beam, taking his hands from Jay’s to put them in the air and sign _i love you_ to Louis. Harry isn't sure if Louis can see over the people and the darkness and the harsh spotlight on his face, but he probably can because he pats his chest twice with his right hand then brings his thumbs up, making Harry lose his breath and Jay laughs because she remembers when they first started signing to each other (they got in quite a lot of trouble for their continuous proclamations of love at school when they couldn’t help it).

The man onstage is talking again, presenting Louis with several things that he takes and then nothing matters because he’s moving off stage, and Harry jumps up to start pressing past his family to get into the aisle and rushes down the aisle and behind the rows of people to find Louis. When he reaches all the seniors who’ve gathered behind the stage in a secret area up a flight of clinical white stairs and a flickering light, his eyes immediately scan for Louis and there he is, in the centre of the room with his classmates and friends chatting around him. He’s talking to Liam about something which requires a sparkling smile and rolled eyes.

Liam spots Harry first and like the red sea the students part for Harry to walk to Louis and Liam makes a hand signal for Louis to turn, so he does and there’s Harry and—

And Louis rushes forward and jumps into Harry’s arms. Harry takes the weight easily and spins them, wrapping his arms around Louis so so _so_ tightly and squeezes, and somebody laughs.

Harry’s lips spilt into a smile that he shoves into Louis’ neck as he mutters, “So proud of you, Lou, so proud babe.”

Louis laughs, says, “Can you believe they used that picture?”

“Oh my god, no, I think they rang mum for it because I remember her being really secretive about something and I made a joke about her dealing oranges or something, just, shit.”

Louis breathes deeply. “I don’t have school anymore. Like, well, there’s uni and stuff, but I wanna wait for you and that’s a whole year away and I love you.”

This is news to Harry, news that Louis wants to postpone his education (he wants to study photography) to wait for him, and Harry says, “I love you too, you don’t have to—”

“Harry.”

“And like it’s so lovely of you to consider waiting but—”

“ _Harry_.”

“What?”

Then Louis’ snorting and being dropped to the ground, though as soon as he’s stable on his feet Louis reaches his fingers up to tangle in Harry’s hair, stands on his tiptoes to press a close-mouthed kiss to his puffy lips. Harry smiles into it, grabbing Louis’ waist to pull him closer still and his eyes flutter closed.

There’s a cough before they can kiss any further, so they pull away and Zayn slaps Harry on the back.

“Ready to watch us perform one last time, mate?”

Harry laughs and nods, kissing Louis one last time before saying his goodbyes and heading back to his seat. Some of them are performing a song by Owl City called ‘Fireflies’, chosen by the music teacher. They’re all sharing vocals, Niall’s on guitar, Louis’ on the piano and Liam’s been delegated a tambourine in place of a drummer, Zayn some maracas as well.

Harry personally wanted to do something by Bon Iver but the teacher said that he was far too sad, and besides this wasn’t Harry’s last song so he didn’t really have a choice.

All the other seniors have moved to the audience and Harry can’t stop smiling.

 _You would not believe your eyes_  
_If ten million fireflies_  
_Lit up the world as I fell asleep_  
_'Cause they'd fill the open air_  
_And leave tear drops everywhere_  
_You'd think me rude_  
_But I would just stand and stare_

His blood is swimming behind his ears, blocking out all sounds but the music Louis and Niall are creating with their fingertips, Zayn and Liam with their hands. Harry’s eyes drift closed as well, and now he can see the words in his skull, feel the song pulsing through his veins.

 _I'd like to make myself believe_  
_That planet Earth turns slowly_  
_It's hard to say that I'd rather stay awake when I'm asleep_  
_'Cause everything is never as it seems_  
  
_'Cause I'd get a thousand hugs_  
_From ten thousand lightning bugs_  
_As they tried to teach me how to dance_  
_A foxtrot above my head_  
_A sock hop beneath my bed_  
_The disco ball is just hanging by a thread_  
_(Thread, thread...)_

All Harry’s thinking about is how happy he is, happy for Gemma who’s been off at uni and happy for Louis who’s just finished college; happy for Jay who’s found Dan and happy for Niall who just got laid for the first time a few weeks ago; happy for Zayn who’s decided on getting as many tattoos as he wants and happy for Liam who thinks he’s found the love of his life in Danielle; happy for _himself_ , who finished writing a ninety-thousand word story about two soul mates who are in a band together and can’t show their love to the world just yet, something he’d been working on for a year almost. (The story ends with over twelve couple tattoos and the break-up of one of the band members and his ‘girlfriend’ of four years.)

 _I'd like to make myself believe_  
_That planet Earth turns slowly_  
_It's hard to say that I'd rather stay awake when I'm asleep_  
_'Cause everything is never as it seems_  
_(When I fall asleep)_  
  
_Leave my door open just a crack_  
_(Please take me away from here)_  
_'Cause I feel like such an insomniac_  
_(Please take me away from here)_  
_Why do I tire of counting sheep?_  
_(Please take me away from here)_  
_When I'm far too tired to fall asleep_  
_(Ha-ha)_  
  
_To ten million fireflies_  
_I'm weird 'cause I hate goodbyes_  
_I got misty eyes as they said farewell_  
_(Said farewell)_  
_But I'll know where several are_  
_If my dreams get real bizarre_  
_'Cause I saved a few and I keep them in a jar_  
_(Jar, jar, jar...)_

Zayn now sings alone now, and god, it’s enough to bring tears to Harry’s eyes. Not Zayn’s singing, though it probably would any other time because he sings like an angel, but just everything. The future, Louis, a future with Louis singing their kids lullabies to help them sleep and staying in the room even when they’ve passed out, everything. Louis.

 _I'd like to make myself believe_  
_That planet Earth turns slowly_  
_It's hard to say that I'd rather stay awake when I'm asleep_  
_'Cause everything is never as it seems_  
_(When I fall asleep)_  
  
_I'd like to make myself believe_  
_That planet Earth turns slowly_  
_It's hard to say that I'd rather stay awake when I'm asleep_  
_Because my dreams are bursting at the seams_

When it’s all over and Louis is officially no longer attending any school, and after the combined family dinner where Anne rolls her eyes when Harry cautiously takes a sip of wine looking right at her with wide eyes, as if she’s going to say no (really, Anne found the fake ID when Jay brought it over for brunch over a few months ago), they go to a party.

The party is being held by Will, a boy on the football team with Louis; his parents have gone out for the night, knowing that he was going to have a few friends over and wanted his privacy. The thing is, Will invited the entire year and a portion of the seniors across the town at the Catholic school.

Not everyone shows but more than one hundred people pile into his house over the course of the house, so thank god it’s a pretty massive house. When Harry sees Will he doesn’t look perturbed; in fact, he actually looks incredibly pleased.

Will has supplied a whole load of cheap beer and an abundance of so _many_ jello shots, all different kinds, though on the texts he sent out he said _bring your own drinks_ , meaning there is quite a lot of it there. And when there is lots of alcohol on offer, what should one do?

One should get drunk.

So, Louis and Harry get drunk. They take jello shots and drink cheap beer, swallow disgustingly weird cocktails Niall mixes up and inexpensive vodka that’s rough on their throats as it slides down. Well, Louis does. Harry only has fruity cocktails and jello shots, but he has over three fruity cocktails and makes it a personal goal to try as many of the shots as he can. He manages to try every one of them, stopping after he has a Bahama mama which is watermelon jello, Malibu rum and peach schnapps, according to Will.

He’s maybe drunker than Louis.

They make out messily against the door to Will’s spare room downstairs, to keep it unoccupied for Will and to assist any drunk girls or guys who could possibly about to be taken advantage of.

Fortunately, after sending away only one horny lesbian couple, no one else comes; they stumble back out, hands entwined, and dance.

They get separated and Louis’ laughing so loudly and he’s so free and light and in _love_ with Harry that nothing even feels real. Harry dances with Perrie and Leigh-Anne, who have finished alongside Louis, with Zayn and Liam, with Tully, Anna and Kyle who are all from the Catholic school. And they dance stupidly, like dads to old country songs with the sole intent of embarrassing their children, which, probably is the epitome of Harry.

Eventually Harry is pulled by Will to watch Louis play twister with Perrie and a barely dressed girl whose makeup looks brilliant, which Harry giggles to her and she grins up at him with shimmering red painted lips through her dark fringe where she’s contorted her body over Louis’ legs and Perrie’s torso.

They don’t get home, in the end; they sleep in one of Will’s spare bedrooms, taking two pairs of Will’s sweats to wear them with their shirts in case his parent’s come home and are scandalised by two naked people sleeping next to each other.

 

Louis stays for the year, working at a local theatre company every day except for Saturday and Friday when he hangs out with Harry, helps him with homework and exams and even with taking pictures for his hipster blog (which he totally didn’t have but now does).

***

The first time Louis asks Harry if he’d like to go on a trip with him, Louis suggests it for Harry’s gap year and his second. Harry hesitates for a time because Louis’ already taken a year off, but with a lot of convincing (Louis telling him all the places they could have sex, the most inconvenient time Louis proposing these being a text in English as Harry’s teacher walked passed his desk) he says yes because it’s a trip with Louis, an _adventure_ with _Louis_ , Louis who calls him angel and looks a bit like Peter Pan with his hair and crinkly-eyes and delicate ankles.

They beg money off their parents, are given a load of money from Louis’ grandparents who said they were giving to him as a late ‘ending school’ present, and combined with the money from working odd jobs through their teens they should be set.


	3. teen hearts beating (faster, faster)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> sex! literally, mostly sex! a bit of daddy kink to add some pzazz to the spice of life

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ........do people even..
> 
> if you're here, thank you!!! im so badly timed im sorry. thanks for reading tho
> 
> title from 'lying...' by panic! at the disco, shout out if you hear ryro singing

The first time they stop at a motel since leaving, neither catches the name because it’s 2 in the morning when they arrive.

They’re somewhere in Plymouth, because they wanted to start down the bottom before they went up. Harry had figured that the trip should be around five hours (he searched on Google), with them stopping and eating supposed to take up twenty minutes, so they’d started a little late at 3 pm—when Harry couldn’t find his phone charger right before they left—to hopefully arrive somewhere near 8 pm.

Unfortunately, both boys disregarded traffic time, potential road accidents blocking the road for the better part of an hour, not listening to the GPS properly, them needing unhealthy amounts of food to devour within minutes, and Louis’ prominent need to piss every ten minutes.

So somehow it’s 2 am, Harry’s just glad the place had a 24 hour check in and Louis’ yawning so much his eyes are tearing up. They’re bleary-eyed and they stumble into the room, falling into the bed fully clothed and stale.

It’s great, really.

***

The first time Harry shows Louis a poem he’s working on through the laptop he brought with him he’s impossibly shy and very chatty, which is quite odd. Louis’ been reading it in a boringly plain hotel room for about ten minutes and Harry has gone from jittery to blank to slightly irritated to talkative, which he is currently.

“Louis? Baby? Do you like it, love? Hurry up Lewis, Louis, princess, princess Lou of all the pretty boys, and girls, I almost forgot you liked girls too, whoops. I understand the appeal, they’re very soft and they smell like they’ve bathed in, like, just pretty stuff; you smell nice though. Louis have you read it yet? Are we gonna have babies, Lou? Can I have your babies? Babies...I love babies. Put a bun in my oven? Are you done? Please hurry up princess, I love you lots. Did you know I used to work in a—”

Throughout this time Louis has been pointedly ignoring Harry, but when his words worm their way into his head Louis can’t zone him out anymore. He turns away from the illuminated screen and flicks the side of Harry’s head with raised eyebrows. Harry immediately flinches away, saying, “Heyyyy, don’t be a dick, that hurts.”

Louis’ mouth gapes open and he gently tugs a strand of Harry’s hair curling against his neck. Harry slaps Louis’ hand away and Louis says, “If _you_ don’t stop being a dick about this, I'm going to change every third fucking word to a variation of the word dick. I'm not taking the piss either; I’ll do it.”

Harry rolls his eyes, rubbing the back of his head to soothe where Louis had tugged. Louis sighs, thinking idly about tents, meaty packages and wands. “Look. Go out and get us some milkshakes while I read more of this. It’s really good so far. Just go, be back, and I’ll tell you what I think about what I’ve read in more detail, right? Promise no dick words.”

And Harry’s eyes light up.

***

The first time Louis’ unfaithful is the only time. Louis isn't _really_ unfaithful though.

They’re out at a club somewhere in a random town they decided to stop at. The two are three-quarters through the year and they're beginning to get tired of everything. Harry had, on their way to the club, snapped at his boyfriend for not wiping his mouth of pizza grease before kissing him, which had led to an argument about personal hygiene and how _someone_ (Harry) takes the better part of an hour in the shower which causes _someone_ (Louis) not to have any hot water, and Louis finds it terribly hard to shower if the water isn't scalding.

Now Harry’s sulking at the bar and, because Louis refuses to sulk and pout while at a club, he steals a shot of straight vodka from a large group of girls and guys who all seem delighted to have a new friend to party with. Louis’ just grateful he’s able to ingratiate himself into the group rather quickly because Harry has the money they’d taken out tonight in his wallet (neither of them trusts Louis with the money). He slams down another shot but this time with something pink and sweet that burns more than the vodka had. The group lets out a loud and synchronised, “Woo!” and Harry glances over though he doesn’t know whether to roll his eyes, cry out in frustration or just cry in general.

They take several more shots—of _what_ , Louis doesn’t really know—as the group takes turns in buying the rounds and nobody seems to mind that Louis’ an extra spot of money for them. Then the group is drifting to the dance floor and Louis hasn’t danced in _ages_ , even if this dancing is just pushing and pulling, swaying and shimmying. At first, a girl with long, dark hair and racoon-like eye makeup tugs him in behind her. The dance floor smells like sweat and beer but her hair smells like strawberries in the way that Harry’s used to before he changed shampoo, hence why Louis closes his eyes, puts his hands on her hips and _pushes_.

She moans open-mouthed, dirty, and shoves back on him, grinding up and down with a delighted laugh. They go like that for a minute or two, moving against each other in time to the fast beat that is pounding in Louis' head, flashing lights and sticky bodies. The song ends and she turns to face him, laughing and throwing her arms up to pump in the air as the new one begins.

Out of nowhere, a pair of hands are grabbing Louis’ hips and pulling him away from the girl and she grins, waving goodbye. An angular pair of hips are rubbing circles against Louis’ behind and _oh_ , that’s a boy—Louis doesn’t recognise the feel of the body which means Harry won’t be happy at _all_ but Harry’s moping and Louis decides, _fuck it_.

Louis arches back into the person dancing behind him and has the satisfaction of hearing a wild, lost keen before he's ripped away from the person by (holy fuck, _there he is_ ) strong, hot hands. Then he’s being pushed into the wall of the club, head spinning when Harry crashes their hips together. Louis doesn’t know why they don’t go out clubbing more often.

There’s a cheer and Harry angles his body so that when he next drives his hips into Louis’ their cocks rub against each other through the rough material of their jeans. They're both half hard before they’ve even done much at all and a remix of ‘Hot Mess’ is playing and Louis hates it but he loves _this_. He loves Harry’s body and their shared heat, the sweat and smiles and moving his body to the beat.

Louis thrusts back into Harry just as the bass drops and Harry allows Louis to grab his wrists. He switches their positions roughly so Harry’s pressed against the wall and Harry whines lowly, the sound vibrating his chest. He places his fingers into Louis’ hair, threading and weaving before he tugs on the soft strands, moving his free hand to roam down Louis’ back and onto his firm, lovely, round bum. Harry _squeezes_.

Louis shudders, exhales shakily; his breath is so hot that Harry shivers and whispers, “Christ, Louis,” just as the second chorus begins to play loudly. It somehow makes Harry’s words insinuate more than they should.

Louis licks the shell of Harry’s ear and causes another shiver. “Want me to fuck you here?” he asks, because the stars behind his eyes and the tightness of his jeans say he can’t wait.

“God, I don’t care, just fuck me, make love to me, whatever,” Harry says, bursting with impatience. He feels needy and selfish, and he wants Louis inside him.

He groans, the sound of a drowning man that’s swallowed by Louis as at last their lips connect, hot and sloppy and wet. Harry’s fully hard now. It’s painful, constraining in his tight jeans and he needs Louis to be like a rock and inside him. This is the motivation when he bites Louis’ ear lobe and mutters, “I’ll talk filthy, baby, I’m gagging for it. C’mon princess, let me be your _whore_.”

Louis’ eyes are wide because Harry doesn’t talk like that, never has before but _oh my god._ Louis feels like he’s going to die if he doesn’t have some form of release soon but they’re still at the fucking club and he can hear people shouting, “I’ll bet you twenty pounds the short one bottoms!”, “I’ll take you on! The small one definitely tops!” which is probably what they should’ve expected.

“Not here. It’s probably illegal and I don’t want to risk it,” Louis says into the slightly damp curls at the base of Harry’s neck, before he nips at the flesh and tastes salt on his tongue.

Harry moves his hands back to Louis’ hair for a second, pulling him back to say, “Outside, then. Bend me over in the alley and fuck me so hard I’ll be limping for _days_ ,” and then Louis’ stepping away from Harry, reaching for his hand.

They pay no attention to any of the other people still in the club as they squeeze past and as soon as they're outside and the shock of the cold air has passed through them Harry is attacking Louis’ throat with searing and damp kisses. They’re not sloppy or clumsy but purposeful, sucking and nipping and biting dark blemishes into the golden, salty skin.

Louis’ groaning and he uses his hand to slink under Harry’s loose white shirt and scratch short lines into the smooth skin of his hips.

“Louis, _please_ ,” is panted from Harry’s bruised mouth, not in a wanting way but sort of resigned, and Louis rolls his eyes and asks, “Do you really want to here, or we could go for car sex?”

Harry blinks and groans helplessly—half because Louis’ free hand is cupping his arse, half because his cock is so hard it’s aching and the car is so far away. “No, the hotel I think, just drive us. Don’t wanna be filthy for anyone but you.”

Louis and Harry hurry to the car as quickly as they can, and get to the hotel in the same manner; Louis driving and Harry squirming, palming Louis through his jeans. Louis almost crashes.

As soon as they’re in the hotel room with discarded takeout boxes, suitcases and greasy napkins, Louis pushes his body against Harry’s spine and moves his hips forward so his crotch grinds on Harry’s jeans. Harry arches his back into his boyfriend’s warm front, making stuttering figure eights with his own hips to rub his ass on Louis’ hard on. Louis brings his hands up to tweak Harry’s nipples through his thin t-shirt and the taller boy gasps as the rough fingers graze over the hard rosy nubs; he’s torn between pressing back and pressing forward, but then Louis snaps Harry over so his legs are far apart, his torso is spread out on the bed and the choice is made for him.

Harry looks so hot and wrecked already that Louis wants to tie him up and devour him. Louis says this and Harry whines, low and desperate, the sound echoing in the room, quiet except for the small moans and sounds of their breaths leaving their mouths. Louis tugs down Harry’s jeans and boxers in one go, albeit with fumbling fingers, and Harry moves his hips up off the bed so Louis can pull the material off. It leaves Harry’s dick red and bobbing between the plain white material of his shirt and the bed sheets.

Louis leaves him like that, legs spread obscenely wide, exposing his puckered hole and the pink flush of his balls, as he rummages through his case for lube. He’s about to grab a condom when Harry says, “Louis, I don’t want a condom. We’re both clean, yeah?”

Louis nods; Harry can't see but he knows the answer anyway in the stutter of Louis’ breath and the warmth of a palm as it caresses the small of his back, rubbing and kneading the skin a bit before he retracts his hand to open up the bottle.

Louis coats his fingers with the lube, letting it warm up a little before he rubs it over the tight rim of Harry’s hole. Harry sucks in a breath, remembering to breathe out and relax only when Louis begins to work two fingers in.

Louis’ thinking of the first time with Harry bottoming, being so surprised how his first finger slid in so easily, but how tight he was around two. It’s a nice memory, something that goes straight to Louis’ dick and makes him shiver a little.

He moves his fingers in and out of Harry until Harry’s moans start to get a little louder, a little more desperate, before slipping out and gathering the lube around three of his fingers, now. He slides the first finger in again to get Harry once again used to the sensation and then as he pushes in a second time he places his middle finger against Harry’s hole. Louis moves all three fingers into Harry then, the stretch tighter this time—just like Louis knew it would be.

Louis moans, rubbing himself against the back of Harry’s thigh for a few moments.

Harry whines into the bed, fingers tangling in the sheets as Louis fucks him open with his fingers. Louis keeps moving them, going all the way down to his knuckles so Harry will make this _sound_ , a sound like a shaky exhale crossed with a low whimper and a small whine of need and pure want.

Louis licks his lips because Harry’s so pliant, so hot and soft and open and—

He bends down quickly, wiping away a bit of lube gone warm with the heat of Harry’s skin with his spare hand as his fingers dip deeper. And then, then his tongue is flicking out and tasting the strawberry flavoured lube surrounding the puckered flesh of Harry’s hole. It’s decidedly less puckered with Louis’ fingers, but it’s still fun to run the tip of his tongue against the ridges. Harry makes a startled, jolted moan, legs moving up so he’s on his knees and he can easily push his ass onto Louis’ tongue. Doing so curls the fingers inside Harry enough so that they end up touching his prostate, a small bundle of nerves that make every other nerve ending Harry has feel like fire.

Harry keens, a magnificent noise that within itself could make Louis endlessly hard, and Louis thrusts his tongue in alongside his fingers. Now Harry gasps, rutting back quickly, and says, “Louis, Louis, more, I can take it.”

That heat bursts low in Louis’ stomach hearing that. He slows his fingers so he can add a fourth; he has to remove his tongue for this, but he bites the insides of Harry’s thighs instead, so. It’s a win-win situation.

The addition of another finger almost proves too much for Harry because when Louis curves his fingers _just_ that way he’s brushing against his prostate and that’s _three_ fingers touching his sweet spot and another filling him up, and god bless anyone who doesn’t almost explode at the feeling.

Louis almost loses it at the sight of four of his fingers inside Harry. “You take me so well, angel, so good taking me. God, you’re perfect, so hot.”

His fingers slide easily enough in and out of Harry and Harry keeps moving to meet his fingers, so Louis takes the fourth one out to scissor him with three fingers. He keeps his fingers spread as he pulls his hand out and Harry’s entire body tenses. When he pushes back in he uses four again and Harry whines, rolling his hips back instinctively on Louis and pants, “God, stop being a tease, I'm ready, always ready for you.”

That’s all Louis needs to skilfully get his jeans and boxers off with one hand while Harry rubs on his fingers. At one point his fingers actually slip out because he tips sideways—he’s not really very skilful when removing two items of clothes at once with one hand. Louis repeats the scissoring a few times more because he loves being able to see the way Harry moves.

Harry almost _dies_ , you see, because he’s ready for cock, Louis’ specifically.

“Need more, need you. C’mon, baby,” Harry chokes out, muffled by the skin of his left shoulder where his mouth meets when he reaches back like he is, trying to see Louis.

Louis would laugh because Harry’s so impatient and he _is_ almost gagging for it, like he said he would, but first Louis takes out his fingers again. He wipes the lube on the sheets next to Harry’s side before grabbing the shirt still covering Harry’s torso and dragging it up, over Harry’s head and letting it fall down his arms. Louis takes his hips between his fingers and lifts him onto his hands and knees on the bed. Harry rolls his eyes, tossing the shirt to the floor and Louis kneels behind him, making the mattress dip (finally).

Louis has a hand on his cock; he shivers slightly and tugs once, almost groaning at the relief. With his fingers wrapped around the base, he pushes the tip into Harry, who breathes roughly through his teeth and says, “All in, Lou, come on.”

Louis refrains from rolling his eyes and bottoms out in a single thrust, taking his breath away. After a moment, Louis’ hands moves to Harry’s hips and then his fingers are slipping away. So, he huffs and wipes his hands in the sheets again. Harry puffs out a laugh, but then Louis’ fingers are back, now digging harshly into the heated flesh of Harry’s waist, hard enough to probably leave bruises, as if the situation wasn’t hot enough.

Harry lets his head drop so he’s looking down his body, seeing his hard cock dribbling onto the sheets with pre-come and Louis’ pretty, golden thighs looking lovely framing his own thighs, now littered with pale love bites. He exhales slowly, wiggling his arse so even more of Louis goes inside him, stretching him out and filling him up. Harry’s breath catches in his throat and Louis’ fingers grip harder.

“So pretty, Lou,” Harry mumbles, voice grumbling darkly in the dimly lit room, words almost casting shadows on the wall. Louis shakes his head, jolting Harry forward a bit, and he says, “Fuck off, Harry, you’re gorgeous. So gorgeous, all spread out for me, you’d be on your hands and knees for two days straight if we could, love you like this, angel.”

There’s a soft moan from Harry and then he says teasingly, “Hands and knees for two days straight, Louis, are you sure you can keep me that long?”

Louis rolls his eyes, pulling out a little. “As if you’d last without me.”

At this Harry laughs, chest vibrating, and he brings his head up so he can twist around and look at Louis’ face. Louis’ smiling, beaming maybe, and he laughs too because Harry’s face looks almost ridiculous at this angle. Harry nods though, eyes hazy and sparkling. “I wouldn’t last, Louis, now stop being a _tease_ and hurry up or I _won’t_ last.”

Louis sighs over-dramatically but moves back into Harry with little pushes of his hips, until at last he bottoms out once more, his cock twitching. He hisses through his teeth, smile gone, and it’s nearly painful to hold back how much he wants Harry, wants to fuck into him and tell him that he loves him, how badly he wants to lick the sweat between his shoulder blades. He needs to move, needs to build up to the release that he’s so impatient for, needs to build Harry up for the same thing so that Harry can see blinding white stars and Louis can see him lose control.

He’s so mesmerised by the way his dick looks pressed into Harry, how snug and tight and _hot_ Harry feels, that he nearly misses the, “Okay, fucking move Louis,” but he doesn’t. Instead he asks how Harry wants him.

As Louis waits for the answer he shifts his hands to dust over Harry’s thighs, fingers moving inward and up until they touch Harry’s balls. He cups them softly, rolling them between his fingers and his palm, and then he moves his hand back to Harry’s waist, squeezing gently now.

“I told you, Louis,” and Harry’s voice hitches on his name as Louis swivels his hips, leaving the ‘ouis’ as a breathless gasp, “fuck me so hard I’ll be limping.”

So that’s what Louis does. He says, “Don’t touch yourself; I want to tug you off, when,” and Harry chokes, nodding before letting his head fall down again so he’s staring at his cock. He swears he can almost see it throbbing.

Louis pulls out swiftly, mumbling, “Good boy,” and Harry has to bite the inside of his cheek to hold in the moan. Louis thrusts back in, slow but deep, and Harry’s breathless already; he’s breathless, wet and whining, drowning in a sea of cream sheets and Louis. He thinks he’s like this for a few minutes, doesn’t know if he should know how long he spends without knowing anything proper but the sensation of _Louis_.

Harry’s losing sight of himself as his eyes blur with pleasure, the feeling of Louis wrecking him making his mind frazzle and feel out of place. His heart is beating so hard it’s all he can hear for a moment, dangerous and heavy in his ears. Then he groans particularly loudly, muffled by the skin of his own arm as the head of Louis’ dick finds his prostate; it’s like all his senses have been cleared and the beats of his heart quicken.

Louis switches angles so that his cock is brushing against Harry’s sweet spot with every thrust, and if Harry was breathless before he doesn’t know what he is currently. Louis whispers things about how he wishes they were back inside at the club, and he was fucking him over a table with everyone watching so they could all see how Harry gets for him, such a pretty boy for him, all gasping and lovely as he takes Louis.

Harry pushes his hips back to meet Louis’, clenching his arse—purposely or not, Louis doesn’t care; it’s beautiful—as he does so and Louis groans, wrecked and weighted.

He has no idea how he, Louis Tomlinson, manages to have Harry Styles as his boyfriend, but he thanks every god he can with the kisses he presses to Harry’s throat and jaw and the back of his neck, chest rubbing against Harry’s bare back.

“ _Louis_ ,” Harry says in a voice so deep and so raw, hands falling away from the bed so then he’s resting on his forearms. His back is bowed, ass still high in the air for Louis to fuck into while his cheek is now pressed against the sheets. Louis knows neither of them last that long when they fuck like this, has always been too turned on by Harry on his hands and knees. He knows by the way Harry’s breath has just hitched that he’s close, so goddamn _close_ , and all that’s required is probably a hand around his dick.

The thing is, Louis told him not to; Louis told him not to touch himself and now Harry presses his thighs together to stop them quivering. They fall apart again, probably due to the way his knees are resting at a distance on the bed.

He props himself on his elbows now, moving his wrists in circles to prevent any aching from holding himself up. Doing so means he can see his cock again; it’s flushed a darker shade of red, the vein on the underside more visible now. Harry shakes his head, breathing in shivering pants of breath, and begins to beg. “Louis, please touch me, please, you’re so lovely I love you, please, I want you, your hands, please, _god_ I—”

“Take what you're being given and be thankful, be good for daddy,” Louis says, a slip of the tongue, only just managing to ground it out—his voice sounds like rough concrete. They’ve tried it before, the daddy kink, mostly only ever calling Harry a good (or bad) boy and Harry calling Louis his daddy. But god, the way Harry _moans_ when _Louis_ says it; he wishes he’d said it earlier. Sure, he’s only two years older, almost only one, and he’s definitely smaller than Harry’s spidery legs and lengthened torso and broad shoulders, but Harry’s his baby, okay; take it however you want.

“Yes, daddy, yes I’ll be a good boy,” Harry replies, the words stumbling out of his mouth.

Louis hums, wondering if he’s allowed to be addicted to the wet slap of skin and how sweat has dampened Harry’s hair; how it allows the dip of his spine to glisten. Harry’s gorgeous, beautiful, angelic in the way puffs of air are going _in, out_ , along with Louis’ cock, and so are the mumbled filthy words which are staining the air, the walls, the sheets. Harry’s angelic.

From Harry’s position he can see Louis’ hand dipping under his waist, can feel the warm palm ghosting across the hardness of his chest, moving down so fucking _close_ to his dick, and Harry’s so fucking _close_ and Louis’ teasing. Harry almost decides to disobey Louis but he wouldn’t dare, not when the last time he did they didn’t cuddle for two weeks until Harry walked around in Louis’ sweater which was too small and clung to his wrists where it would’ve fallen around Louis’ fingers. (Louis was so endeared by the sight that his fond look was permanent, up to the point when he gave in and snuggled into Harry’s side on the sofa.)

Harry balls his hands into fists, skin rubbing into the sheets like he wants his cock to, and he just _can’t_ anymore; Louis’ a tormenter, that’s it, he torments Harry. He wants to cry out because he’s so wound up, so ready, and it’s the kind of mouth-watering tension that makes all of Harry’s bones tight in anticipation, the kind that gives him the best orgasms. So, he moans, whines, licking his lips and breathing out deeply as he pushes back.

Then Louis gives in, says, “This is for being good, baby, being such an obedient boy for daddy,” and then his hand is wrapping around the base of Harry’s dick that has a line of pre-come dribbled down the side. He smears it along the vein with his thumb, squeezes the base of his boyfriend’s cock and moves his hand back up, pumping a few times before his hand is twisting around the head, short thumbnail pressing down over his slit and—

That’s all it takes.

Harry’s knees slip down the bed with his thighs trembling, trapping his cock between his stomach and the bed and it’s too much, so much, the fabric and his skin and Louis filling him up so nicely, and Harry comes hard and delicious into Louis’ hand. Harry shouts, _daddy_ falling from his mouth into the sheets, so it’s muffled, breathy and croaking. There are vibrations running through Louis’ body and _jesus christ_.

Louis keeps fucking into his boy, slamming into him as Harry loses even more breath, but then Harry moans and it’s so rough but so weak and it tips him over the edge. He comes in thick spurts, Harry squeezing his arse in a fruitless attempt to handle his orgasm. Louis’ eyes roll back into his head even though he wants to watch Harry; it doesn’t matter much though because he’s vibrant and electric everywhere and the colours of Harry are visible behind his eyelids anyway.

Louis falls on his front on top of Harry, breathing heavily. The sweat on their bodies is growing cold and sticky, as is the come on Harry’s front and Louis’ hand. They stay just like that for a minute or two, and it feels as though their souls have merged together, connected in a way that seems like they were made for each other, maybe like puzzle pieces, maybe like two halves of a heart.

After a short while Harry croaks, coughing a bit. Louis pulls out gently, apologising when Harry whimpers in slight pain from being over-sensitive. Louis rolls over, off of Harry, and the disconnecting of their bodies makes a funny sound so Harry giggles. Louis reaches blindly over the bed, grabbing a shirt to wipe his hands on before cleaning them both of sweat and come, and Harry of lube. Louis has to tap the side of his belly to get Harry to flip onto his back, and it’s so much worse than having to look at the gorgeous lines of his muscles moving under his skin and his pert little bum, because there’s abs and the deep ‘v’ of his hips and a small tummy, with hickey’s scattered from his collarbones to his waistline. He looks so peaceful and nicely fucked, and Louis just sighs.

He throws the shirt weakly and it lands in an armchair, and Harry grabs his hand, still sticky, now that it’s free and tangles their fingers. They stay that way for a while, until they’re fully down from the high of their orgasms, until they’ve moved passed the stage of blissed, fucked out boys and into tired, cuddly boyfriends.

Louis laughs at the world because he can and his voice is rough, warm, and it’s hot tea and soft blankets by the fireplace. “Should we go back and tell them who tops?”

Harry lets a tired whine resonate deep on his throat. “Can we sleep first?”

“We have to get these sheets off first, though.”

Harry winces when he tries to get up and Louis decides seeing him limping tomorrow will be funny, but right now it makes Louis think about getting hard again because he’s fucked Harry so hard he can't exactly move and jesus if that doesn’t do something to his dick. So, Louis hauls him up and carries him bridal style to a sofa on the opposite side of the room. It should be weird because Harry is so _long_ , but with Harry’s face pressed to Louis’ neck, bare aside from the random array of bruises left by Harry’s pretty mouth, it’s as natural as a storm after several hot days in a row and it’s perfect because they're glowing, together. If Louis didn’t know any better he’d say Harry had the air of a woman who took to pregnancy like it was her natural state of living, the _glow_ and _warmth_ and _confidence_ swimming around his body in an air of brilliance. Basically, if Louis didn’t know any better he’d say Harry was pregnant, with a little baby inside his belly, half him half Louis.

Louis sets him down, strips the sheets, picks Harry back up, and then they fall asleep on the bare bed, with Louis’ back pressed to Harry’s chest and there are no gaps between them. Sometime during the night Harry’s arm slips over Louis’ belly and Louis has entangled their fingers, his other arm curving around Harry’s and resting over their entwined hands.

 

In the morning Louis wakes up to find himself naked and freezing, with Harry, whose limbs are flailed everywhere, snoring quietly to the pillow mushed against his cheek. He’s so warm, though, his body alone is like a radiator. Louis can only snuggle closer into Harry’s chest and close his eyes again.

(Later on they find out somehow somebody managed to get a low-quality video of them at the club all over the internet; someone’s even cut the video into gifs and attempted to brighten them and give them a higher definition, though all that does is make their roaming hands more prominent in the brighter flashes of light and Harry’s face, open-mouthed and flushed beautifully, a little more like his normal skin tone.

As unreal as the situation is, their ten minutes of internet fame goes away eventually. Louis supposes people just like to watch people make out, but there’s high-quality porn for that, so he ignores it mostly.)

***

The first time they sit down and have a serious conversation about what they’re doing after this trip is a day later.

Harry tells Louis he wants to do a creative writing course, major in English and write stories or poems for the world, as well as start photography. Louis tells Harry he’s been thinking about going to uni for Drama, or maybe psychology, while at the same time looking into becoming a football coach.

From here, they start looking for places and courses to take them, the question of them being separate never raised.


	4. the stomach acid finds a new way to make you get sick

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> infidelity! well, love then the downward spiral then infidelity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so...i seem to have overestimated two things: my own patience in spacing out posting when the chapters are already written, and the interest chaptered fics generate! moving on, i'll just post every few days, and its probably more than 12 chapters lbr im not cutting anything and its 60 k now so...
> 
> thanks for reading though! love you, you're incredible

The first time they visit Harry’s father’s grave together, it’s raining and nearly the last stop before they go home (because Manchester’s next, then Bradford to see Zayn who’s visiting his grandparents, and then Leeds because they’ve always wanted to go to the festival just haven’t got around to it).

It’s raining because of course it is, and it wouldn’t be a proper trip to the cemetery if the sun had been shining.

The rain wets Harry’s face, blending with his salty tears and Louis’ crying too, despite the fact he’s never met the man and never will. Maybe that’s why, though.

Their hands are clasped tightly, wet leaking through the small gap, until Harry says he’s going to wait in the car, and Louis says he has something to say and that he won’t be a while.

When Harry’s out of view Louis whispers, “Thank you,” into the pound of water but directed at the tombstone and the epitaph of _we’ll love you forever and a little bit more_.

Louis swears he feels a warm hand on his shoulder, the feeling soaking through his drenched shirt to his skin, before he nods, turns away and joins Harry.

***

The first time they see their apartment, Harry knows it’s the one.

The walls are painted a horrid lime green, the kitchen has the ugliest splashback he’s ever seen, the carpet is splattered with paint in the living room, the bedroom is smaller than the kitchen, the office space has black and white dotted wallpaper and the bathroom toilet doesn’t have a lid, the shower is a small glass square and the tiles are a soft brown.

Louis keeps making faces to Harry behind the real estate agent’s back and Harry squeezes his hand. At the end when the agent asks if they’d like some time to look around by themselves, Louis opens his mouth to refuse when Harry says, “Yes, thanks,” with a smile.

The agent steps outside and Louis raises his eyebrows. “Seriously,” he deadpans. “This is what you want.”

There is a whistle from the cold November wind slipping in from somewhere. Harry thinks about the windows above the sink in the kitchen, the view they’ll have of the city through the almost roof-to-floor window in the bedroom, the warm tiles and the ugly splashback and he can see them living there; he can see Louis frowning at the paint until they go over it, the early mornings where he’ll look at the splashback when he’s making them both breakfast, late night tripping over the carpet and kissing Louis into it, burning his skin.

Harry can only shrug, grinning harder.

Louis sighs deeply and lets Harry kiss him fiercely, just before he calls their agent in to tell them yes, they’ll take it.

The first thing Harry does is call his mum to let her know.

***

The first night they spend in their newly furnished flat, Louis sucks Harry off against the door then fingers himself while Harry watches, bending himself over their cheap sofa. Harry fucks his mouth with his tongue, every thrust of his hips sending Louis further down the wobbling dining table. Louis rides him on the floor, getting his cock deeper, and Harry comes inside Louis—finally—on their bed. Louis’ come ruins the fresh sheets and they curl together, not bothering to clean up.

***

The first time Louis comes home from his coaching course with The Football Association, he’s beaming ear to ear and he can’t stop, not even when Harry snaps at him over something minor. Harry’s crabby from a bad day of class, likely, and Louis doesn’t let it get him down.

He calls Zayn to tell him and Zayn’s proud, his latest girlfriend shouting a happy congratulations from somewhere near Zayn’s phone. Zayn chuckles and they talk for an hour, catching up as the conversation flows easily from one topic to another. Zayn’s becoming a tattoo artist where he met his girlfriend, doing a photography course.

Eventually Harry comes into the office, naked except for the black and purple skirt around his hips, lips red and eyes dark. He bends over, saying, _I’m sorry for being such a bad boy. Punish me?_ and Louis doesn’t think he’s ever hung up the phone faster.

***

The first time Louis doesn’t come home without telling him first, Harry goes through several emotions like a fish tank filter cleaning the water.

Over the course of the night he changes from nonplussed to mildly concerned, to nervous when Louis doesn’t text back and totally anxious when Louis doesn’t text back five times. Harry becomes frustrated, thinking about Louis having a good time and ignoring his existence, then fearful that something bad happened followed by guilt for being upset. Nearing three in the morning, Harry is calm for a few minutes when he reminds himself Louis did say something about having a drink with the lads after their coaching session, but quickly becomes angry at the thought that Louis hadn’t even considered updating him on their plans.

By the time he goes to bed at four, a little more than upset about what Louis might be doing and mad at himself for staying up when he has classes tomorrow, Harry’s drained.

When Louis crawls in at six in the morning, he falls over and wakes Harry up with his swearing. Harry rolls as far as he can in their bed to avoid Louis and squeezes his eyes tightly shut, taking shallower breaths when he starts to smell the alcohol coating Louis’ scent.

However, right before he heads out for his class—dead tired, heavy bags under his dull eyes—he pops a glass of water and some aspirin on Louis’ bedside table.

This is the first of many nights like this.

(Harry learns not to wait up.)

***

The first time Harry stays out late without telling Louis what he’s doing, he’s spending time with some people from his creative writing class.

Their class is his last, the same with a group of others, and together they agree to go to a bar and have some bevs, as Jharyd put it. They’ve been there since five and the clock on the wall tells Harry it’s close to twelve now.

The group is relatively small; Jax, Jharyd, Lilli, Annabelle, Ryan, Liam and Ethan. Jax has scars all up his arms, rarely smiles but when he does it’s enough to stop your heart; Jharyd is the pretentious, posh type with his hair a mountain held by gel and hairspray; Lilly has long, swinging locks and paints them with literal paint what must be every morning; Annabelle has a sharp grin, always making crude jokes and giggling afterwards; Ryan is the tortured soul, curling hair, hazel eyes and soft American accent a gentle distraction from his internal woes; Liam is Ryan’s boyfriend, with a billion piercings and just enough eyeliner to make his dark eyes even more bottomless; Ethan curls around Liam and Ryan, smirking whenever anyone asks if they’re all together and randomly bursts out with showtunes or Disney songs.

Harry doesn’t quite know where he fits with the group, but it’s easy to forget that squeezed between Ethan’s smirk and Liam’s outlined eyes, hot and enticing. Annabelle is crowding Jax against the bar, telling him her dirtiest jokes to get him to laugh, while Jharyd, Ryan and Lilli discuss grammar in poetry—Ryan mentions e.e. cummings when Jharyd name drops Sylvia Plath and Lilli asks them both if they count lyrics as poetry.

Ethan pulls Liam away to dance, grabbing Ryan’s wrist as they pass him and Harry swallows his glass of vodka. He stares as they dance, Ryan between the two of them like Harry was a minute ago, and the taste of vodka is suddenly sharper than it had been on his tongue.

Jax giggles to his left and Annabelle crows her victory, knocking into Harry as she slaps her hand down on the bar top to get the man behind it’s attention. This causes a domino effect wherein he bumps into Jharyd who sways forward into Lilli’s grasp too quickly, and the two of them go tumbling to the floor.

Jharyd looks affronted and Lilli’s laughing along with Jax, Annabelle with her hand slapped over her mouth in shock at what she created.

Harry takes that as his cue to get out of there, hailing a cab before he can think any better of it.

The ride is quiet, driver humming along to the radio. Harry pays him too much, walking slowly so as to avoid slipping over. He hadn’t realised he was so drunk back at the bar but now that he’s finding it hard to stay upright he knows he had too much alcohol, nothing in his stomach.

Louis’ waiting for him, apparently incensed when he opens the door as he immediately begins throwing questions at him.

Harry looks up from the floor, confused. “Wha—what, you... What are you, the S-Spinach Inquestion?”

Louis squints and he looks funny so Harry giggles, clapping his hand over his mouth, similar to Annabelle’s earlier actions, after remembering Louis’ frustration.

“Did you...did you mean the Spanish Inquisition?” Louis questions.

Harry does double gun fingers at him, clicking. “’s the one.”

“See what I mean! It’s totally unsafe for you to be this bloody fucking drunk, walking alone at night. Fuck me, Harry,” Louis mutters, rubbing his forehead like he has a headache.

“’s not like I’m in trouble, nothing bad happened.”

“You couldn’t have called, Harry?” he asks wearily.

Harry recognises that he’s going to regret this in the morning, but he wasn’t regretting it before he came home and now he just feels like Louis’ attacking him for the exact same thing Harry doesn’t complain about. Louis’ being a hypocrite and Harry doesn’t like that one bit.

“I didn’t think you’d be home to care,” Harry slurs, taking a sick sort of pleasure when Louis’ gaze goes sharp then defeated, verging on betrayed. He laughs meanly, quietly, and stumbles past Louis to their bedroom.

***

The first time Harry hates himself for touching Louis, he’s not sure what’s happened between them to make him feel like this.

One night, Louis comes home when Harry’s just settled into bed, the room pitch black and Harry’s skin a stained-glass blue from the moon. Louis kicks off his shoes, his steps loud as he stumbles through the flat.

When he reaches their bedroom, he’s suddenly a lot quieter. He shimmies out of his clothes and climbs in next to Harry. Harry pretends he’s asleep even though he’s so tense, he’s like a guitar string pulled too tight.

Louis presses his mouth to Harry’s neck, letting unhurried kisses colour his flesh.

Harry wants to tell him it won’t fix anything, his fingers twitch and he wants to move away. He thinks about when they were teenagers together, passing notes in class, licking into Louis’ mouth, holding hands under the dinner table and getting to know everything about him. When they toyed with starting a band, Louis the sun of so many people’s lives that sometimes Harry would feel like a shadow, sharing lunches and touching Louis’ dick for the first time. Riding him for the first time, memorising the curve of his fingers and the way they felt dragged across his skin.

Something rises in his throat when Louis shifts, leans up to kiss him on the mouth and slide his hands down Harry’s chest.

 _You’re so cold_ , Harry wants to say, but he moans softly instead and lets Louis’ hands underneath his waistband.

Harry’s hands shake and Louis jerks him off. Harry kisses Louis harder, pushes into his hand and murmurs _I love you_.

Louis doesn’t say it back, too caught up in kissing Harry over and over. The sheets are shoved down and there are goosebumps on Harry’s arms but they ground him, the chill brings him back and makes him stay there, focused on Louis’ movements. He has an idle thought about how now Louis is warm and he is cold, they are ever-shifting sames and opposites and Harry just. Sighs and twists his own hand down to where Louis is touching himself.

Harry shifts when he can’t get a good grip, twisting up so that he’s on top of Louis and grinding into him. Louis gasps, ever so pretty, and Harry kisses him and kisses him until he can forget everything but this moment. Harry moves harder, Louis spits on his hand and grabs his own cock to make it slippery when Harry bows his hips and shoves their dicks together. He moves his head up, kissing Louis again, and when he pulls back Louis looks up at him, beautiful and wanting. Harry feels his heart constrict because no one’s ever seen Louis like this but him, only him, and Harry can’t. He—he closes his eyes for a moment and opens them to Louis turning away, shuddering.

 _Harry_ , Louis says, turning back flushed and needy. Harry can’t do this anymore, just moves and moans as Louis’ fingernails dig into his arse, wanting for friction.

Harry stops, pins Louis’ wrists above him and bites one of them. He fucks down onto him harder and Louis cries out Harry’s name. Louis says _want you so bad, want you_ and Harry gives himself over to the cause. He comes and in the few wet seconds of his dick spilling, making everything slippery, he bites at Louis’ lips too and Louis comes, arching, fingers curling.

Louis slips out of bed to grab a cloth to clean them, but Harry starts counting down the days.

***

The first time Harry’s unfaithful is a little different.

It starts out at a club, but this time Harry’s alone because Louis doesn’t want to go out and anyone else Harry called was busy; Louis has to do an essay for a class or whatever. They barely touch anymore.

Something’s wrong and Harry’s trying to fucking hold it _alltogether_ because he hasn’t the faintest idea how to fix it—their love is supposed to be a fairytale, not a nightmare.

Harry’s constantly feeling out of depth, always trying to keep up with Louis’ changing attitudes, opinions, the things he mentions and the things he doesn’t. He’s been swimming in a pool of confusion for months now, ever since May and Louis started not coming home at night, never quite sure what Louis’ feeling, what he’s doing when he’s out. Harry can’t tell Louis’ real reasons from his excuses and he rarely wakes up when Louis comes home anymore.

Sometimes Louis looks at him with this sad look, a look that says he’s disappointed and confused and so very, very _upset_ but Harry has no idea why Louis’ looking at him like that when he’s the one out all the time. Harry doesn’t even care at this point, he just wants to fucking _fix it_ , hates being so helpless. All he can do is watch Louis come in and out, watch his eyes start to drown and know that his mind is doing the same.

Louis’ hardly ever home, always with _things to do_ , things like have study groups with his friends and have coffee with his friends and have dinner with his friends and have drinks with his friends and spend every fucking spare moment of his life with his friends. He’s rarely on time for dinner, the only time Harry sees him is in the morning when he slips past to squeeze in the shower or is munching away on some cereal.

Louis’ being an utterly _shit_ boyfriend, let alone a horrendous friend, by pretty much refusing to spend with him, ensuring he’s always booked up with other things.

Harry feels like a fucking child when he has to ask if Louis wants to do something with him.

Harry’s asked and Louis said it was hard juggling everything, the FA courses more intense than he’d bargained for and that it was good to go for a drink with the lads after to relax. He says he’ll try and be home more and that he’s sorry, but Harry feels isolated, trapped within Louis’ gaze and the fact he’s seen Louis’ clothes on the floor more than he’s seen him these past few months.

Harry loves Louis but Louis’ been a distant prick the past few months and Harry doesn’t know that he can _live_ with that anymore. Harry doesn’t know anything.

 

It’s half past nine and the bar Harry’s at is filling up at last.

A boy approaches him and his eyes are brown, a gentle chestnut. It takes a long second of Harry wondering when the last time he saw Louis with his eyes crinkling was before he recognises that it’s Ryan from creative writing. He takes a long swig of his beer and tries to push Louis to the back of his mind but the thoughts of him stay in place. Flashes of blue, tan skin and soft hair, bags under his eyes and bruises, deep and never-ending.

“Hey Harry,” he greets, eyes growing far too dark as he smirks his hello. His lips are red, no boyfriends in sight.

Harry smiles and says, “Hey.”

“You here with anyone?”

“No,” Harry says, looking Ryan directly in the eyes with an answering smirk, “I’m not.”

Harry wants to be able to say that he can't believe this is what he’s saying when he should be at home, spending time with Louis on one of these rare nights he’s home. He should know better. But Harry just wants to say _stay_ and he also wants to say _take me_ ; he wants to hold Louis’ hand and tell him he’s everything.

It’s not like Louis would even spare him a glance.

Ryan smiles and runs a hand through his fringe, ends curling, to push it to the side. Harry swallows roughly.

There’s no pretence that they’re there for anything else; Harry’s thoughts are too loud, too vicious, too snapping that when Ryan kisses him Harry’s automatic reaction is to kiss him back. A second afterwards Harry tries to tell himself it’s because he’s been with Louis for a while and nobody else has tried to kiss him, but that’s not it, not at all.

He tastes of beer and cinnamon and Harry knows it isn't Louis. Harry knows it isn’t Louis and Harry can't pull away. His lips are trapped, heart pounding and he can't move, frozen because he’s kissing someone who isn't Louis and it feels fucking _good_.

It’s fresh and new and warm and it’s easy to lose himself in Ryan.

Harry keeps kissing back.

He kisses back because Ryan has a hot mouth that burns Harry’s tongue when he slips it between his lips, because Ryan has brown hair and warm skin and soft eyes and he doesn’t taste like Louis at all.

Soon Ryan’s pulling away and muttering something about an apartment not far away and Harry’s nodding, then Ryan’s paying for their drinks. Harry feels a bit dirty but he feels _alive_ for the first time in what seems like forever. It feels good to feel dirty.

It’s cold outside but Ryan wasn’t lying when he said it wasn’t far off because eight minutes later they're stumbling into an old elevator and kissing again.

Ryan detaches himself when the doors ping open and there’s a trail of saliva between their lips.

They trip into Ryan’s flat quickly and noisily and it’s only when Ryan’s shut the door and begins to suck bites into Harry’s neck against the door does Harry’s brain unfreeze completely. He feels the scrape of Ryan’s teeth against his skin, the darting of his tongue, the soft press of his lips, and _christ_ , it’s so lovely in a way Harry hasn’t felt in months.

The situation becomes a lot like his first time, because Harry is thinking of Nick, how he’s Nick in the situation now and that Louis is him, and how _good_ Ryan feels. Except Ryan’s riding Harry and Harry’s fucking up into him, desperately fast and wicked, their mouths meeting messily every few moments, Harry’s large hands cradling Ryan’s sharp hips and helping him move. Every time Harry’s eyes flutter shut all he can see is Louis riding him, Louis’ hips under his hands, Louis calling him beautiful, Louis mumbling something about love.

Louis’ not perfect but he’s a lot better than Harry who’s here and fucking someone else. Harry’s _weak_. He can't deal _without_ Louis but god help him if he’s supposed to deal with a Louis who’s absent, drinking more than can be good for him and ignoring Harry’s emotions.

It’s a weak excuse, one that shatters and falls away in sharp shards as Ryan moans into his neck and Harry releases a groan into Ryan’s hair. It smells like vanilla and soap. He moves his hands up Ryan’s back, listening when Ryan mumbles, _Harder_ , digging bruises into his pale skin.

When Harry comes it should feel like he’s been sentenced to death, though really it feels like heaven explodes behind his eyes and settles in his bones as a warm, golden glow.

After, though, after when they’re lying there and catching their breath, looking up at the white-painted ceiling and Harry slipping out of Ryan, discarding the condom in a near-by waste bin; after is when he realises he’s just fucked it all up, when he feels that he’s been poisoned.

Ryan curses under his breath, twisting in his bed sheets.      

After, Harry wishes Ryan’s saliva had been laced with something toxic.

***

The first time Harry is really _not_ okay is outside Ryan’s building.

He’s on a busy street with a phone number jammed into his pocket, and he falls to the ground and shuts down. A few people put money on the ground next to him and he doesn’t see until he opens his eyes and a little girl is staring and the only way Harry’s seeing anything is because the street lamps are on.

“Are you all right?” she asks, tatted dress blowing slightly in the cool breeze.

Harry breathes. His face is still blank and he isn't, isn't okay, so, “No. Are you?”

“No.”

“Where are your parents?” he asks and he should’ve known.

“Don’t have any,” she replies, smiling sadly. She shivers so Harry takes off his jumper and offers it to her. She grins, then, and her eyes gleam and sparkle, reminding Harry of Louis. He sniffles against the cool wind, wiping a hand over his face with a sigh. The girl grabs the jumper, bundles herself in the soft material and plops on the ground next to Harry. “Why are you sad?”

“I, I ruined something. My boyfriend—I,” Harry cuts himself off, giving a small shrug to hide the tremor in his lips.

She tilts her head up at him and blinks large and caramel. “Boyfriend? Isn't that wrong for two boys to love each other?”

Harry chokes out something half sob, half laugh. It’s abrupt and frightening and Harry isn't okay. “No, no. You can love anybody you want to; loving anyone is never wrong.”

Her smile is wide and she has dimples. “Then if he loves you, you shouldn’t be sad. He does love you, right?”

It takes a long time before Harry can croak, “Yeah,” and then he makes another choking sound, wet and out of tune.

This time the girl notices and she snuggles close to his side, wrapping her small arm covered by his massive jumper around his own arm. He tilts his head down at her and the first tear makes its way down his face.

It hits her cheek flushed red with cold and she makes a face but she doesn’t say anything. She leaves soon after with the money people left. Harry doesn’t notice until ten minutes after when he shivers from a bitter gust of wind that chills his heart into a wintry and frozen state. He feels horrible in so many ways that he hangs his head and lets himself freeze.

He wonders if he’ll ever see that girl again.

***

The first time Louis’ ever so truly angry at Harry happens when Harry gets home, two weeks later, from grocery shopping. Harry’s eyes are red and glassy, his cheeks are flushed, his hands shaking a little as he puts the food away and the milk in the fridge.

Harry’s been quiet for the entire two weeks, ever since he came back from the bar with swollen eyes and a red face, gradually growing more and more distant as the days went by. Louis had realised what a horrible person he’d been and had tried to start making an effort, understanding the love needs work. He’d stopped going out with the lads from FA and was home every night, hoping that Harry might forgive him.

Except Harry won’t say anything, hasn’t given Louis even the slightest hint about what was making him upset. Whenever Harry wasn’t skulking around he was snappy and harsh, letting small bouts of anger slip out in a few words before he realised what he’d done and apologised quickly, retreating where he could.

Louis’ suspicious, worried, hurt and a bit angry himself.

Today Louis gets up from the sofa, saving his file and closing his laptop before making his way into the kitchen where the pantry is. He crowds Harry against the shelves, Harry making a small sound as Louis reaches up to kiss his forehead.

If Louis had kissed Harry’s throat, he would’ve felt how fast Harry’s heart is beating.

Louis takes a step back and fixes Harry with a concerned look, and then he just.

He asks Harry what’s upsetting him.

And Harry—Harry shudders. He coughs and tries to step back, stopped by the pantry shelves. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand before he moves his hand up to touch where Louis kissed him.

Louis’ trying to alternate wide, surprised eyes and narrowed, suspicious eyes. Louis ends up looking confused, scared with a crumpled brow.

Harry starts crying. He takes a deep, shaking breath and lets the words crawl filthy and cold out of his choked-up throat.“I slept with someone else.”

Louis—Louis looks at his hands, face blank. “Did you just— _what_?”

Louis looks up and his heart is caught in his throat and he wants to throw the world off the edge of a fucking cliff because Harry’s eyes are sorry and he’s cowering and he means _I fucked someone else_ and Louis doesn’t really—Harry’s been a constant for most of his life, he’s always been sure of Harry, but Harry’s mouth has slid with someone else’s, his body moved with someone else’s and Louis can’t fucking deal with that.

Harry begins to croak things like, “Lou, I didn’t, I mean, I. _Fuck_ , Louis, I love you so much and—”

Louis can't _breathe_.

What happens next isn't like in dramas, not like the beginning of romance films and not like midway through the movie when everything falls to shit. It isn't Louis throwing plates, cups, plants, vases, pens, whatever happens to be near him. It isn't Louis shouting, isn't Louis swearing and falling apart in front of Harry, Harry who would be trying to console him.

What happens next is real life, and it hurts.

“ _Out_.”

And Harry stumbles, taking a few essentials (phone, wallet), but he leaves.

 

Louis doesn’t know what to do with Harry’s things right now so he leaves them. Thankfully, Harry doesn’t come back for them.

 

Louis goes through the motions numb, blank. He eats cereal in the morning sometimes, dry toast if he feels a little better. This is what he’ll live through the day on, anything else just comes right back up and into the toilet bowl.

The first thing Louis does, the first real thing, is three nights after Harry leaves. He’s lying in bed, their bed, on his side, tucked under all the blankets. He’s breathing raggedly, as he has the past few nights.

Louis takes a deep breath, just one, but the scent of Harry on the pillows and the duvet, the comforter, the sheets, it’s there and it’s faint and _real_. And.

And Louis hasn’t cried yet, hasn’t let himself, hasn’t showered yet either, and he doesn’t do that now either. He can smell Harry on the sheets and doesn’t cry.

Instead, he screams.

That night Louis goes into the alley and burns all the blankets. He pours a bottle of cheap vodka over the whole mess on the ground, taking a few long gulps of the alcohol as he lights a match and lets it drop.

In the morning, he showers the ashes off his skin. He steps onto the cool tiles, flicks on the light and pointedly doesn’t look in the mirror as he steps into the hot water.

This is when it hits him.

There is shampoo in his hair, running down his fingers when Louis gets it, now, he _gets it_. Harry _isn't_ coming back, he’s not coming back and Louis isn't sure that he wants him to.

And that’s—

One moment he’s washing his hair for the first time in a week, the next Louis’ pulling at the strands, shaking. He’s breathing heavily, harshly, and he wants to scream but his throat is tight and choked and Louis wants to make some _fucking_ sound for once, wants to fucking shout until the world hears him but he just _can't_. His stomach burns, bile rising in his throat, and he isn’t breathing now, jaw clenched like his hands in his hair and he—he doesn’t—his entire body is quivering and it’s not good, it’s not fine, he’s not fine, and then Louis’ crying.

Thick, desperate sobs wrack through his body, coming out of his throat and making his ribs, his chest, his head _ache_. They’re raw, devastated sounds, something no one should ever have to hear, let alone make. The bile flows upwards and he tries to do something but he just gags, choking wetly on his sobs and making the tears come faster, more painful. It is as though Louis is at war with himself, has just swallowed tonnes upon tonnes of shrapnel, glass and metal slicing the insides of his throat—the medic’s down and the officers are down and everyone is _down_ , dead on his command. The sounds of Louis’ soul echo in the bathroom, the cold and empty bathroom with one sink and two toothbrushes and two towels and Harry’s fucking _pink_ razor and just one man.

Nothing’s really okay.

Louis’ fingers are wrinkled by the time he gets out of the shower, with red eyes and shaking hands, twitching. He resolutely does _not_ think about the time they tried shower sex and ended with Harry kissing the tips of his prune-y fingers, promises on his tongue.

His hands don’t stop shaking.

***

The first time Louis drowns his sorrows in alcohol, like the perfect cliché his life is, is only a few hours after he’d got out of the shower. After spending an hour sitting in a park, letting the cold air soak through his thin jumper, he goes to a liquor shop and buys so much it’s a real struggle to carry it to their— _his_ , not their—flat. On the way he sees an abandoned grocery cart and dumps his purchases in it.

Louis doesn’t necessarily know what to do with himself when he gets home.

He sets out the alcohol, sits down at the kitchen table with the biggest mug he could find. It’s one Harry got him for Christmas, last year maybe. There are cute little penguins playing beach volleyball on it. He wonders if penguins would like volleyball.

Then, he drinks.

Louis drinks as much as he can without wanting to throw up and even then he keeps going. He talks to himself, muttering things about how stupid he was to think of a future with Harry, to look at the knobs on the cupboards by the kitchen sink and to think they might need to change them so they wouldn’t be at least partially dangerous to a curious child. He calls himself ridiculous for picturing barbecues on warm afternoons with all their friends, a dog even, for hoping for mushed vegetables and protests to broccoli, for being able to ask himself _what’s going on for you in ten years time_ and being able to see Harry in dad jeans telling his same old stupid jokes and their kids rolling their eyes at him.

Louis—he isn’t quiet about his pain now, throwing the empty bottle of whiskey at the wall where they had their first wall sex, Harry hot and beautiful with snapping hips and a desire to make their neighbours know the way his name sounds when it falls from Louis’ mouth. After the whiskey he doesn’t use the mug anymore, throws that at the wall above the sink where it smashes and falls in shards into the sink. He takes long pulls of straight vodka because he needs the fucking _burn_ right now, needs to feel like the shards of his mug are dragging down his throat.

He stops crying, he does, he just isn’t sure when.

 

It takes a long time for Louis to even think about getting over Harry Styles. The boys on the team he coaches make him forget the smiles he’s giving are supposed to be fake and when he laughs for the first time since Harry left, he lies to himself about it not hurting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title from "lying is the most fun a girl can have without taking her clothes off" by panic! at the disco! if u noticed that theme, it's because im running with it, also lying is about cheating so that's fun
> 
> btw hmu on tumblr @seasideghoul for whatever reason


	5. beyond our control

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this chapter goes very hard

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> eleanor makes an appearance! this one really goes hard though, im serious
> 
> title from panic! at the disco's 'intermission' bc it was the first panic song to come on shuffle.

The first time Harry doesn’t have a place to live, he goes to a bar.

Of course there isn’t anyone who can help him there, but he sits and he drinks beer until his head is fuzzy and it feels like his mouth is filled with cotton.

Harry gets thrown out when it reaches 3 in the morning, when all the other people have cleared out and the guy manning the bar has cleaned, locked everything else up and is ready to go home and sleep.

Once on the street, he thinks about any other friends he could stay with and realises he doesn’t actually have any, not immediately here anyway. So he looks in his contact list and as he reaches the h’s he sees Horan and he tilts his head drunkenly. He’s spoken to Niall frequently throughout the year, knows he’s only a half hour away from them and he wonders if Niall might...

Harry’s calling before he knows what’s happening and as Niall picks up his voice is so familiar, croaking, that Harry’s heart chips a little more. He’s able to get his name out before the tears take over and then Niall’s demanding to know where he is so he can pick him up. Twenty minutes later Niall takes Harry to his home and that’s that. Harry doesn’t deserve such kindness, not now, but he can’t go anywhere else so he has to accept it.

When he tells Niall what happened he’s furious for about an hour, stomping around his place and swearing at Harry. Then he hugs Harry tightly until Harry’s sobs soften to hiccups.

A week later Niall comes home with a few boxes of his things—each day comes new boxes until there are too many in Niall’s flat to remain ignored. Some boxes are thrown together and some are packed neatly, sometimes Niall comes home irritated at Harry but mostly he comes home worn out. Harry doesn’t know how to thank him.

Harry stays until he finds his own shitty place closer to his school, starts sleeping with Ryan on a regular basis, pretends he doesn’t see the looks Ethan and Liam send him or the way they cling to Ryan like a lifeline (the way Ryan is covered in more bite marks, more finger-shaped bruises on his hip, claiming him, and Ryan begging him to bruise him further) and Niall phones everyday to check in.

In his shitty apartment with charity store furniture there is an acute absence of Louis. Harry thinks about calling him, about turning up at their place and pinning him to the door, kissing him apologies and hearing Louis’ voice again. He wonders what Louis would say, what he would do, and this is an endless cycle that ultimately destroys Harry as the days drag on.

He catches up on his coursework and gets an internship in a publishing office working as an editor’s assistant. It pays and it gives him the money he needs for rent and other bills.

Harry lets his days blur until they are all the same variations of each other and he never stops thinking about Louis.

Ghost touches haunt him, a brushing up his arm or a leg between his two in his tiny bed. Crystal blue and sparks of green and grey, pink lips murmuring against his skin, short fingers and a hot, heavy palm. Slips of skin bare, feathery hair and laughs tumbling out of his mouth.

***

The first time they see each other after their break-up is also the first time they both have ‘other people’ since Harry’s leaving. The year is 2014, Louis is twenty two and has a girlfriend named Eleanor, while Harry is twenty one, hand slipped casually with Ryan’s.

By some kind of coincidence, they’re walking towards each other. Louis and Eleanor are holding hands; Harry and Ryan are drinking milkshakes. Ryan’s arm slips around Harry’s waist, pulling Harry’s hand with him. Louis is instantly jealous. His grip on Eleanor’s hand tightens and he’s reminded of the way Harry’s hand used to squeeze back but her hold just becomes looser. She looks at him.

“Louis?”

Harry’s head snaps up at the name and Louis blinks at that, a little startled at the sudden reaction. He turns his head to smile at the Eleanor instead of continuing to stare, but his insides are burning.

Louis tells Eleanor quietly, “The lad over there, long hair, it’s Harry.”

Eleanor peeks over at Harry through her eyelashes and Harry doesn’t see the flicker of her eyes, too busy looking at Louis. She turns back to Louis, smiling softly. “What do you want to do?”

Louis thinks. “Make him regret it.”

Eleanor, instead of opening her mouth to share the disapproval she feels at the subject of helping make another person feel bad, smooths her hands up his thin cotton t-shirt and lets them rest heavy on his shoulders, pressing slightly. She leans up to Louis’ ear, murmurs, “I’ll have you know I don’t appreciate being used,” before her hand is on his cheek, fingers pressed on the dips of his cheekbones.

Her mouth is soft on his, her body is soft against his, she is so soft, too soft. That doesn’t mean it isn't fun kissing her.

Then Eleanor is moving her hands even further up, into the stylishly messy stands of Louis’ hair and crowding in his space, causing Louis to stumble back, back until he hits a brick wall, the coolness of which makes a shiver run through his body.

Eleanor’s body is still soft, though now her belly is hot against his through the walls of their shirts. She tastes like bubblegum and white chocolate, and she moans wetly, quietly, into Louis’ mouth. She sprawls her hands even more in his hair, tangling it between her slender fingers, and Louis bucks up slightly, hands pressing into Eleanor’s waist to drag her impossibly closer.

Not a bad experience at all, giving meaning to the statement he made at fourteen finally. He's only ever dated guys, except for that one time in secondary, and then it was Harry and only Harry.

Louis pulls away a little, to breathe, and Eleanor is grinning. “Good enough?”

He grins along with her, laughs before he sucks in a whole lot of air rather sharply, burning his throat on the way down, because Eleanor has just stuck a leg between his two, rubbing against him.

Harry is still standing there, mouth hanging open. He’s confused and hurt and angry and terribly, terribly sad, and Ryan has retracted his arm, tapping on his phone. Ryan glances up, looks at the couple against the wall and thinks he and Harry could do better, but really he just wants to get home and cuddle (Ethan’s getting quiet and Liam’s getting gentle, both distant). He nudges Harry’s hand with the corner of his phone softly, causing him to focus on Ryan.

Ryan smiles, small and warm and worn. “C’mon, Harry, it’s cold as fuck. Let’s go home.”

***

The first time Harry laughs about a break-up is a week later, and Ryan tells him with sharp words and warm hands that he thinks Harry’s still attached to his previous boyfriend and Harry can't stop laughing. Ryan swallows the hypocrisy, glad Harry isn't hurting too much because he’d always thought Harry was very _feeling_. Ryan’s gone by the time he stops laughing, and Harry doesn’t care, can’t, and he doesn’t know why. (He does and it’s Louis.)

***

The first time Louis laughs about a break-up is when Eleanor tries to subtly tell him she thinks they may not be working and that she’s been thinking about having a girlfriend on the side and Louis laughs because he can. Eleanor stares for a total of three minutes before she laughs too and when they’re finished they both have tears streaming down their faces and their stomachs ache. Louis takes them out for celebratory pizza and that’s also the first time Louis’ ex becomes his friend.

Eleanor also says that Harry is his soul mate, the other half of him. Louis scoffs but he knows she’s right. He doesn’t know how to forgive Harry, but he thinks he wants to try.

***

The first time Louis and Harry have stupidly fast make-up sex is a month after that one. They’ve spent nearly the entire month thinking about the other, Louis wondering if he has it in him to be able to forgive Harry and Harry wondering if Louis will ever forgive him. It’s on a day where Louis is angry and Harry is upset that they finally meet once again. They're both jogging through a near-empty park, one Louis frequents and Harry’s never been to before.

One could call it fate.

As soon as they see each other their steps become faster so they're running towards each other like in a movie, except when they reach each other it isn’t a tight hug and a sweet kiss; it’s Louis shoving Harry to the ground. Harry goes willingly, panting when Louis asks, “What the _fuck_?”

Louis shoves Harry down again, harder, and punches the side of his face. Harry gasps, the look in Louis’ eyes dangerous and gorgeous. Pain blooming from his face it’s everything Harry thought would happen months ago and he waits for Louis to start yelling.

Louis above him takes a deep breath before leaning down so he’s close to Harry’s face and Harry can feel blood sliding down his throat from cuts in his cheek. “Harry Styles, you’re a fucking bastard and if I could I would stop loving you. You’re... _fuck,_ you absolute wanker Harry Styles. Fuck you,” and then he smacks their mouths together. It’s a clash of teeth, lips and tongue, Harry’s blood tainting the kiss, making it feral and hate-fuelled.

Except, Harry doesn’t hate Louis and Louis doesn’t hate Harry so it’s just fast, hard, messy and a sharp copper tang. Harry grips Louis’ arm so hard he knows it’s going to bruise and he tightens his fingers. Louis gets his hands into Harry’s hair, down past his shoulders now, and yanks. Harry bucks up, moaning against Louis’ mouth and Louis pulls away before they can kiss again.

“You’re a fucking moron, angel,” Louis tells him.

“I know but you're a fucking moron too, for before.”

Louis apparently doesn’t agree, leaning down to bite Harry’s mouth. More blood, more teeth, and he mutters, “Shut the fuck up, Harry.”

“ _You_ shut the fuck up, you were a fucking ghost for months trailing the scent of alcohol, like.”

Louis accepts this, mumbling, “I fucking know, Harry. I know. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

Harry doesn’t know how he ever let anyone else kiss him.

They go to Harry’s shitty apartment that still smells faintly of cologne Harry’s never worn, so Louis holds his breath and spits on his hand. They rut against each other like teenagers and Louis keeps mumbling _sorry_ , and Harry jerks every time Louis’ breath ghosts against his skin. Harry comes and he didn’t realise how different it was with Ryan.

Somewhere in there, Louis says, “One day I'm going to marry you.”

And Harry says, “You better.”

***

The first time Louis falls back in love with Harry, they’ve been dating for months now. Harry keeps dropping apologies like it’s the cure to what he did, but it isn’t that that coerces Louis’ feelings to forgive him. It’s the dumb jokes Harry makes when he thinks they’re amazing, the soft kisses he presses on that spot just behind Louis’ ear, his fingers curling around a cup of tea in the early morning light after spending the night.

Harry’s writing more and more, Louis finished his coaching courses and now coaches three teams of different ages in the area, seeing the older teams four times a week and the littlies team twice. They’ve discussed Harry and he buying a new flat, starting fresh, but in the meantime they both have copies to the other’s place and that’s enough right now.

Louis seems to love him even more than he did before and they can't believe they ever did anything to ruin _them_. It’s hard some days to forgive the fact that Harry cheated on him because it is a conscious decision he makes at the start of every day, and sometimes waking up with Harry sprawled around him doesn’t help. Sometimes waking up alone doesn’t help either; he chooses to forgive Harry every day he can, and while this isn’t everyday it’s damn near all of them. Louis also puts a lot more effort into their relationship, realising that a decade of friendship isn’t enough to keep them going, to stay in love.

Harry’s working in a publishing firm as an editor now.

Louis thinks, sometimes, that he might one day be Harry’s very final kiss.

He doesn’t realise what a big responsibility that is, but he keeps it close to him, tucked under his ribcage and hiding amongst his lungs.

***

The first time Harry falls back in love with Louis, he’s a little surprised. He didn’t realise he had fallen out of love with Louis, if even a little bit.

Louis’ burned croissants in the oven and is still attempting to eat one. There’s jam around his mouth and he’s cringing whilst trying to smile. The newspaper is spread over Harry’s shitty dining table, covering the stains he didn’t make and collecting the crumbs Louis’ spilling.

Harry sighs, putting his own croissant in his mouth (unburned) and skimming his eyes over the housing sections. He swallows, not taking his eyes off the newspaper, and reaches for his croissant. His hand finds an empty plate and he snaps his eyes up, suspicious. Louis’ beaming at him through a mouthful of Harry’s croissant.

“Louis, that’s foul! Stop,” Harry protests, scrunching his nose at Louis.

Louis closes his mouth, laughing in his throat. He leans over the table to kiss Harry, jam and flakes of pastry and butter. Harry flinches back, crowing, “Don’t you _dare_ , Louis Tomlinson!”

But he kisses him anyway, smack on the mouth, smearing the mess. Harry cries out with indignation, smacking Louis away and wiping his face quickly. Louis cackles, cleaning his own face with a tea towel and Harry wipes his hand on Louis’ shirt. Louis squawks, throwing the tea towel at Harry’s face and creating a successful diversion for him to remove his shirt and also throw it at Harry.

Harry flails, laughing hard when he throws the two things back at Louis. They drop to the floor and Louis settles in Harry’s lap, warm and weighted. He grins down at Harry and Harry pokes his tongue out. Louis darts down to capture Harry’s tongue between his teeth, making him jerk back but Louis follows, taking his teeth away and kissing Harry.

Harry rolls his eyes but kisses Louis back anyway, something unfurling in his stomach. It spreads through his bloodstream, becoming the cells in his body and the curl of his toes, his hipbones and his elbows and his stomach, churning. Louis pulls away, clearly not on the same wavelength as Harry as he licks his cheek, laughing.

Struggling away, Harry shushes Louis with his mouth, tongue curling around the sound.

***

The first time Harry shoves Louis out of a room is the day his mother is declared dead.

They're only twenty three and twenty two; March the first and Harry finds out Anne was hit by a drunk driver.

Harry breaks down, hurling his phone across the room as Louis stands at the doorway, concern all over his face. Harry stands there pathetically, just crying, and Louis rushes to hug him but Harry’s hands go up and he’s pushing Louis. Louis stumbles back into the wall and hits his head, causing him to lose balance and land on his arse.

It’s sure to leave a bruise, but Louis’ still worried about his boyfriend and he stares up at him. Harry chokes and he’s frozen, absolutely frozen and Louis has to reach out for his legs to get Harry to fall gracelessly into his lap. Everything _aches._

Louis soothes him in every way he knows but mostly with touches, holding him and grounding him, keeping him safe. Harry falls asleep with a pounding headache in Louis’ arms and he’s still asleep the next day in their bed when the house phone rings and asks when they’d like the funeral.

That’s when Louis finds out and he cries too because Anne will never see them get married or her grandchildren and he loves her as much as his own mum. He crawls in bed beside Harry and weeps silently until Harry wakes up and shudders. Louis tries to be strong so Harry will be able to stay, hold onto him and not get swept away by the sadness and the aching in his heart.

The funeral is a hushed, private affair, Harry’s voice breaking when he tries to make a few jokes remembering his mum. Gemma and Harry cling to each other like lost ducklings, Robin holding Gemma’s hand while Louis has Harry’s on the other side. Jay hugs Harry and Gemma as tightly as she can. She doesn’t want to let them go. Harry lets go of her to hug his dad, and Robin’s arms hold Harry so fiercely that Louis wonders if Harry can even breathe.

Harry and Louis stay with Robin for a week following, Gemma filling Louis’ position when he has to go back to work. Louis’ glad that they have that time to work out their new family dynamic, figure out how they’re moving around each other, what hurts to say and what’s okay. One night he hears Robin mention maybe downsizing, Harry’s gasp and Gemma telling Robin maybe a few more years. Robin sighs deeply, tells them that it’s just going to be hard surrounded by Anne without the person, and Harry replies that he has the person too, memories.

Louis turns over in the bed and tries not to listen.

***

The first time Harry smiles and means it after Anne’s death is on a Friday one month later. Louis’ made macarons and they’re absolutely _terrible_. They’re shaped bizarrely, grainy, thin and salty (neither are sure how since there wasn’t any salt added) and everything a macaron should not be. Louis’ face contorts into the oddest expression Harry’s ever seen and he’s known Louis for over a decade, and the laugh that bursts out of Harry’s mouth is the first of many more in the upcoming years and the only one that surprises Louis.

***

The first time Louis wins Monopoly it’s a Thursday and such a monumental occasion he calls Zayn to boast and apparently interrupts him getting laid, by _Liam Payne_ of all people, all the while Harry’s laughing faintly in the background.

***

The first time they get tattoos together Louis’ freshly twenty four and Harry’s still twenty two and Louis has a velvet box sitting comfortably in his pocket nearly everywhere they go, waiting. Louis gets a rope around his right wrist, an infinity rope untied where his veins are on the underside. Harry gets an anchor on his left wrist, covering a tattoo of his he had done when he was eighteen.

When they hold hands, the end of Louis’ rope fits against Harry’s wrist in such a way it seems as though the rope could fit inside the hole of the anchor, and that makes Harry quite giddy whenever he looks down.

***

The first time they see a book Harry’s written in a shop surprises the hell out of Louis, and Harry grins and says that he kept it a surprise.

At twenty three years old he’d gone to one of the publishers he works for, asked her to take a look at his novel if she had a spare moment. Realistically they both knew there wasn’t any way she’d have _spare_ time but Harry’s been a dedicated employee and she looked at it. Apparently it was one of the better works she’s read in a while, and within the week she made sure the paperwork was ready and Harry was told he was getting published. A few months later and Louis isn't sure how he didn’t realise Harry was writing more, working less, eyes always filling with glee when he talked about work.

Louis’ eyes are blue and happy as he jumps up into Harry’s waiting arms. He wraps his legs around Harry and kisses him who’s beaming back at him. They kiss and hug until a person brushing past coughs loudly and Harry puts Louis down, letting Louis buy the book even though Harry must have at least twenty copies stored in his office space.

The blurb on the back cover reads: _L is a good letter. L can stand for lots of things: lollipop, life, little, lead, law, liberating. Something important the letter L brings to the table is love. Love is a good thing, too, and comes along with light and lust and you feel so lucky you could explode. Love can also be a bad thing, presenting the world with a feeling of being lost and locked away and left behind. L is a letter I personally tend to worship. Because L is the letter that begins two names of a person rather important to me who sometimes smells like freshly picked lavender._

_Lilli Longford is beautiful and captivating and raw, and yes, none of those adjectives begin with L, merely because lovely doesn’t do her justice and it’s night time and I’m nearly falling asleep with my hand in a cold cup of coffee and I'm in love with the letter L and Lilli._

Louis doesn’t know whether to smile or laugh so he pecks Harry’s lips instead and Harry murmurs, “I had to change Lilli from Louis about four hundred times, just accidental slips.”

This time Louis kisses him because this book is about them disguised as a demisexual transgirl in love with a girl who seemingly has it all together, and then he laughs into Harry’s mouth. The book is called, ‘ _a combination of love and stupidity to create brilliance_ ,’ and that basically sums them up entirely.

***

The first time Louis proposes to anyone, he’s freaking the _fuck out_.

He’s been on the phone to Niall about half the day and Liam and Zayn the other half, trying to stop his nerves from making his hands shake. His entire body feels shaky, though, and nothing can stop the fear that his limbs are going to break off and scatter so he can’t carry out the little plan he’s made in his head.

Zayn and Liam don’t offer any real advice, a little too caught up in each other to be of any help to Louis. Niall, though, tells Louis that for a twenty five year old he’s gone through a hell of a lot and he’s done most of it with Harry.

Louis made sure it was a day he wasn’t coaching, Sunday. Harry left for work in the late morning, after some truly amazing sex in bed and then slippery handjobs in the shower. He told Louis he had a few meetings until four, then he was going to go to his favourite cafe and write more for his new series about an otherkin spy realising it was a vampire, working to try and stay employed while also finding a witch to grant it protection from the sun. After meeting the witch, a straight white boy, it wants to find a different witch but it falls in love with him, all the while the witch is realising he might not be so straight after all.

Harry writes stories that make the world feel included and it’s just another thing that Louis loves about him.

Louis cooks the only thing he really knows how to: chicken stuffed with mozzarella, wrapped in Parma ham with a side of homemade mash. Harry taught him how to make it back when they were both teenagers and Harry still worked at the bakery, and it’s the only meal Harry’s cooked with him which has stuck. He gets the chicken cooking before he starts in on the mash, then stops when he realises it’s almost six and he didn’t even set up their dining room properly.

With a rush, he hurries into the dining room, swearing under his breath. When he gets there, however, he says bluntly, “What the fuck,” and remembers, rather dumbfounded, that he already set it up after Harry left. Knives and forks and napkins are already in place, candles scattered but not lit and Harry’s favourite flowers in the vase on the table. Louis sighs with relief, heading back to the kitchen to finish his mashed potato.

Like some kind of magician, Harry opens the door just as Louis’ poured the glasses of wine, plates on the table and candles burning (vanilla).

“Lou! Guess what happened today when I was walking to that cafe I love? A teenager stopped me and told me it was thanks to my book that he realised he was genderfluid, so I told him he was beautiful and he started crying, which. I hugged him and— _oh_.”

Louis glances up and bites his lip to try to contain his grin at the sight of Harry’s mouth dropped open wide, almost comical. For the first time all day, his bones settle and he feels excited rather than scared.

Harry has halted in the doorway and he just keeps staring. Louis laughs. “Harry?”

His mouth flops a little like a fish before he frowns and asks, “I didn’t...forget something, did I?”

Louis laughs again, putting down the wine bottle to walk over and give Harry a gentle kiss. “No! No, of course not, babe, I just wanted to do something for you. I love you and wanted to show you.”

He pulls back and Harry’s beaming, wide and bright and in love. Louis’ heart flutters wildly, the weight of the box in his pocket keeping it from flying away.

Louis settles Harry into his chair, hands lingering at his shoulders.

 

Throughout the entire dinner, Louis is so caught up in talking to Harry that he forgets to propose.

Lucky for him, however, when he’s promised to do the dishes tomorrow and they’re tumbling backwards into their bedroom, the box spills out of his pocket thanks to Harry’s grabby hands. Louis giggles, forgetting what’s inside, but his eyes go wide when Harry bends down to pick it back up. He opens the box before Louis can say, “Ah, shit,” but he still says it anyway in the stunned silence.

So, Harry’s on his knee holding his own ring for Louis. Harry looks up desperately at Louis, asking, “Lou?” in a trembling voice.

Louis swallows and gets down on his own knee, mirroring Harry’s stance so they’re almost eye level.

He clears his throat, trying to breathe steadily and not faint or something. “Harry, I, um,” Louis begins but a short glance at Harry derails the little speech he’d been perfecting for weeks now, because Harry has wet eyes that are sparkling in the darkness of their bedroom, the mess of their clothes and Louis’ shoes, a half-unpacked suitcase that has been in the same position for months. Harry’s recently broken phone cord and Louis’ laptop case, charger spilling out that they always trip on when going to the bathroom in the middle of the night; random socks, throw pillows abandoned, books on their bedside tables and Louis’ reading glasses; a glass of water on Harry’s bedside cabinet.

They’re surrounded by the mess of their lives and Harry’s in fucking tears and he looks so beautiful that Louis decides to fuck the speech.

“Harry Styles, I think I’ve probably always loved you. We met in that park because those pricks were being pricks and I’ve never been so glad someone stole something, because it’s likely we might not be here and... I don’t know how I’d like living without you. You’re like my fucking sunshine, Harry Styles, and I want to spend the rest of my life revolving around you—until you explode...actually, never mind that one. Anyway, Harry, love of my life,” Louis pauses, heart swelling to impossible sizes like he's the Grinch as Harry laughs wetly, “would you do me the honour of becoming my husband?”

There is a split second where Harry blinks but his eyes seem to get stuck closed and it takes a world for them to open again, but it’s really only a second, and his eyes are red and he says, “Of course, you prat; I love you.”

Louis thinks his life stops at that second, pauses and takes a screen-shot; his heart is pumping a million miles an hour, his eyes are wide and then he’s pulling the box from Harry’s hands incredulously and presenting it to Harry who kisses him hard as he slips the ring on.

They kiss until they can’t breathe and Harry’s ring slides through Louis’ hair. Louis pulls away, inhaling deeply to try and overcome his shock that this is real while Harry calls his dad.

***

The first time they get married is small and boisterous and beautiful, a year to the date of Louis’ proposal.

Niall’s back with Harry who’s in a black tailored suit with a white shirt, expensive leather shoes and his hair down. It’s long and curly and he keeps twitching, readjusting his cufflinks or shifting with his wine-coloured tie. He can’t stop thinking about what Louis might look like, what suit he decided on and how he’s doing his hair. The socks they got the same, something nobody but them will know. His arse in fitted trousers.

Apparently he zones out on that thought for too long, because the next time he’s aware of the room Niall is clapping him on the back and pinning a white rose to his lapel. Harry’s aware he can’t stop beaming as he walks up to where he’ll marry Louis, all of their family and friends seated and whispering to each other as soon as he makes his appearance. They decided to meet at the altar rather than have one of them walk down the aisle, but Harry blinks as the organ begins and he twists in his spot, noticing that Jay is missing. He looks at the girls for guidance but Daisy and Phoebe are giggling together, looking at Harry’s confused face. He looks further down the row, Dan smiling down at Ernest, Lottie’s already tearing up, Gemma is grinning up at him with Doris in her lap, Fizzy’s looking back at the entrance, Robin’s spun around in his seat, and Harry turns back and loses his breath.

Louis’ walking down the aisle, Jay at his side, but Harry hardly registers her beyond her smile. Louis’ wearing a slim-fitting suit coloured a dark charcoal, with a contrast black collar, white shirt and white satin tie. There’s a burgundy carnation on his lapel and the biggest smile on his face, teeth gleaming, eyes scrunched, looking like a summer’s dream all golden and shining and beautiful. When Louis sees Harry’s suspiciously shiny eyes as he steps nearer, his grin shifts into a dorky face with his eyes crossed and his lips pursed. It makes Harry’s heart jump and he snorts before making a face back at Louis.

Everyone’s laughing softly to each other and by the time Jay lets go of Louis Harry feels a lot calmer about it all.

She leans over to Harry and whispers, “If I have to give away my boy, I’m glad he’s going to you.” Jay kisses his cheek warmly and goes to sit with their family.

For a moment Harry is partly frozen, hit by the sudden reality that this is real, it’s happening, he’s marrying Louis after everything they’ve been through together. He is light on his feet, standing there, bright and in love, and he hopes that wherever they are Anne and Des are watching this together.

Louis takes his hand, startling Harry back to the moment; Louis squeezes like he knows what Harry was thinking about that had him so lost.

The woman behind them clears her throat and smiles. “Today is a celebration. A celebration of love, of commitment, of friendship, of family and of two people who are in this thing for the long run.”

Harry zones out here, having already heard her go through this yesterday with their own little tweaks and additions to make it more them. Louis’ paying attention raptly though, flittering his eyes from the woman to Harry to the crowd of their loved ones all watching them. Harry takes the time to admire Louis and everything he is.

A few people from the team he coaches are here, seated at the back—there’s George, Lauren, Camry, Bella, Katelyn and Frankie. Harry’s met them all before, mostly when he’s attended Louis’ practices, and these are the kids who try as hard as they can to please Louis, Mr. Tomlinson, to make his smile lighter while he watches them give it their all. They love him dearly, always cracking jokes to make him laugh and laughing at whatever jokes Louis tells them. Lauren and Bella even teamed up one day to ask Harry about his ‘intentions’ with their coach, serious faces and holding hands to make their approach more solid.

People from Harry’s work are here as well, friends they kept from university and friends they’ve made after. Eleanor with her girlfriend; Zayn and Liam are together to the left, Liam’s hand around Zayn’s waist as they watch the ceremony, Niall holding his girlfriend Sara’s clutch while she dabs at the tears on her face.  

“Despite all of our differences, love is what we all share. It's the great unifier — our one universal truth. That no matter who we are, where we've come from, what we believe, we know this one thing: love is what we're doing right. That's why you both are standing here. That's why you all are here to watch them stand up here. We have all loved in our lifetimes, and in this moment, we're reminded that the ability to love is the very best part of our humanity.

“All of us here today have our own love stories. Some are short, others long. Some are yet unwritten, while others are just getting to the good part...”

Louis catches his eye while the woman begins to speak of their own story, mentioning the ball and the years without contact, Louis’ pretend spy moves and the hug that sealed it all. He makes another silly face that Harry combats with his own, Louis sticking out his tongue with his eyebrows raised. Harry simultaneously pouts and tenses his lips while frowning and Louis actually chokes on trying to contain his laughter.

They continue trading their dumbest faces back and forth until suddenly Louis shakes his head, rolling his eyes at himself and mouthing to Harry, _We should pay attention_. Harry risks a glance at the officiant and her eyes are gleaming, face alive as she speaks, truly believing in the power of love. He moves his gaze back to Louis, wiggling his fingers in an attempt to distract him. Louis’ mouth twitches, though he doesn’t look away.

Harry’s cheeks ache, their hands are clammy pressed together and he’s marrying Louis Tomlinson. He’s going to become Harry Tomlinson.

“Oh fuck,” someone murmurs, causing Louis to throw a hand to his mouth and stare at Harry with crinkling eyes. It takes a moment to realise it was _him_ , he just swore in the middle of their ceremony, oh god.

He’s so caught up in this that someone’s snort breaks Harry out of his trance to realise people are snickering behind their hands and the officiant’s eyebrows have risen. He blinks and flushes pink, goes to apologise and she sighs, amused and shaking her head.

“These two are so in love they’re caught up in each other even now, getting _married_ ,” she laughs.  “Moving on... Harry, now that we have your attention, are you ready?”

He chuckles at himself and nods, squeezing Louis’ hand tighter.

“Do you, Harry Styles, promise to keep Louis Tomlinson as your favourite person—to laugh with him, go on adventures with him, support him through life's tough moments, be proud of him, grow old with him, and find new reasons to love him every day?”

Harry can’t stop smiling and with Louis sliding the ring onto his finger he doesn’t know where to look. His hear flutters giddly, in his throat. “I do.”

“Do you, Louis Tomlinson, promise to keep Harry Styles as your favourite person—to laugh with him, go on adventures with him, support him through life's tough moments, be proud of him, grow old with him, and find new reasons to love him every day?”

Louis says, “I do,” and Harry’s entire life stops in that moment, focused on how radiant Louis is and how now, forever, they’re only each other’s. The ring in Harry’s pocket is cool when he grabs at it, extracting it to slip it onto Louis’ finger. It looks strange, the gold band snugly around his skin—new. Harry can’t wait for the sight of it to become old.

The officiant continues, “Do you, Harry and Louis, promise be each other's partners from this day forward? Do you promise to bring out the best in one another, share your happiest moments together, and love each other absolutely—for the rest of this lifetime and for whatever may come next?”

A shared glance, Louis’ mouth quirked up and his eyes so blue. Together they answer, “We do.”

 

In the photographs of the moment after Louis looks sick with happiness, cheeks flushed and Harry wrapped around him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i totally stole the script thing! i had no idea what to do so i looked it up and found the one i used, so im referencing it here so as not to be a total thief: http://offbeatbride.com/2015/02/nontraditional-non-religious-wedding-ceremony-script
> 
> (im watching katy perrys movie and she's singing 'the one that got away' and im crying)
> 
> what did you think?


	6. gnashing teeth and criminal tongues

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> honeymoon to baby

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the sex is totally hot and i love their baby, im sorry. i put so much work into baby research i'm so set if i ever have one, seriously i contemplated literally purchasing baby books for this.
> 
> a little, tiny bit of breathplay involved with the sex tho, in case that isn't your thing. 
> 
> title from 'this is gospel' by panic! at the disco

The first time Louis wears lingerie for Harry is a week after they get married. They went to France for their honeymoon, ignoring those who said it was too cliché, and have spent every moment since departing wrapped up in each other. They’re taking two weeks off, having stayed at home for four days before travelling to France for the next eight days.

Today is the first day the two men have decided to leave their hotel room and head to Paris.

They’ve been walking around for a few hours when it reaches just after midday, Harry’s hat and sunglasses protecting him from getting sunburned but Louis has neither, soaking up the sun gleefully. Harry has hold of Louis’ hand and is swinging it between them, chattering on about the next part of his book series, occasionally asking Louis questions like if he should maybe write it as a cis boy and a cis girl love story, just once, or if he should make them both agender using ‘he’ and ‘she’ pronouns respectively and not reveal it until the end.

They pass a lingerie shop, lace adorning the mannequins in the window front, and Louis’ cock jerks in his pants. It’s a surprise, to say the least, and he frowns down at his crotch. Harry continues dragging him along and Louis swallows an idea that, over the next two hours, he can’t shake.

Just as it starts nearing three in the afternoon, Harry wants to stop for gelato before they head back to their hotel room. The line for the shop is mildly long and Louis sees an opportunity.

He already has bags from shopping at other places and he kisses Harry on the mouth, telling him he wants to find a toilet and no, it can’t wait, prick. Harry pulls him back to kiss him again, hat bumping Louis’ hair as he ducks too low but he kisses him anyway, hat bending. Louis laughs against Harry’s mouth, pressing one last chaste kiss to his husband’s (!!!!!!!!!!!) lips, ducking out from under the hat and heading back in the direction he’s sure will take him to the lingerie boutique the quickest.

It doesn’t take long at all, the inside of the boutique scented like perfume and air-conditioned cold. Louis is a little taken back by the sheer selection he has to choose from, deciding after a brief moment just to start with underwear and work his way up.

Not a minute later, a saleswoman approaches.

“Bonjour, est-ce que je peux vous aider?” she asks, eyes dark and friendly. “Quelque chose pour votre petite amie? Épouse?”1

 Louis flushes, hands in his pockets as she questions him. Her nametag tells him her name is Amelia, maybe in her mid-twenties.

“Ah, do you—shit. Um. Parlez-vous anglais?”

She laughs brightly and replies in a thick accent, “Yes, of course. Do you need me to repeat what I said before, sir?”

“No, no, I caught most of it,” Louis reassures her. “It just might be easier for both of us if I’m not stumbling over every third word—haven’t practiced in years.”

Amelia nods, understanding. “Yes,” she responds cleanly, “we do get quite a few women saying all the wrong things when it would be much easier to speak English. So, are you looking for someone else? Or...”

She raises her eyebrows and Louis swallows, running a hand through his air before he has to answer otherwise it would be rude not to. He tries to ignore the uptake of his pulse. “Actually, I’m looking for myself.”

“In the woman’s section?” Amelia asks, the wickedness in her voice causing him to laugh nervously. She smiles and steps back, flicking her eyes up and down his body then nodding once more and grinning, instead. Her teeth are white and neat, lipstick dark red, and she says, “My boyfriend too. Come, I have just the thing.”

 

At the hotel, in the bedroom looking at himself in the mirror, Louis feels confident. He also feels several hundred dollars poorer, but the sight of his body is enough to dispel those thoughts.

Harry’s been in the shower for ten minutes and it took Louis half the time to put on one of the two outfits he purchased in that boutique.

Amelia had ‘ooh’ed and ‘ahh’ed at him when she’d finally got everything in place, then began to explain what everything was. “So, the [bra](http://www.aubade.com/enlacez-moi-145.html) is a ¾ cup, lace-up with a pink satin underneath and a sparkly jewellery accessory. It belongs in the Enlacez-moi collection, using Leavers lace and geometric mesh. If we adjust it just so, it won’t even seem like you have next to no breasts—you’re quite small anyway, it won’t be much a problem. The matching piece is usually a lace-up Italian brief but the ones we’ve put you in I think are much more fitting. [They’re](http://www.aubade.com/boite-a-desir-13.html) low rise, open-up briefs with adjustable ties at the side, see, and we normally only have these in black, so you’re lucky you have the same shade of red. When you present yourself, having one button undone is the sexiest for lovers to see.

“This [waistcincher](http://www.aubade.com/enlacez-moi-153.html) sits below your waist and you can attach these to stockings, resting sensually on your hips. The laces on it can come undone and fall away, inspired by the lace-up bodices of corsairs. The [stockings](http://www.aubade.com/les-ballades-d-aubade-13.html) were a little more difficult to select as for your skin tone with the red...mon dieu, so many possibilities. What we went with are these gorgeous, black ones with a refined lace trim of roughly 8 centimetres, with semi-sheer voile and reinforced toes. You, monsieur, are exquisitely hot.”

 

Harry doesn’t know any of this now as he steps out of the bathroom now, hair towel-dryed and the same towel wrapped around his hips. He opens the door in a flush of steam and the scent of his soap. The first thing he sees is a box on the floor, tissue paper the only thing inside it. He glances up, to find Louis to ask him what was inside the box, and the second thing he sees is a beautiful vision of a man who is surely not his husband.

Louis’ standing in front of the mirror, back to Harry as he undoes a button on his underwear. His hair is cinnamon and honey, curling around his neck, his back is golden and smooth, a bra settled underneath his shoulder blades. On his hips there is delicious lace hooked together, with red straps pulled down over his arse to a pair of sheer black stockings. His arse itself...the pair of panties is tied with neat little bows either side of his hips underneath the cincher, covering most of his round bum with the brilliant red, buttons keeping the whole thing together. The top button at the low of his back is undone, revealing the dip where his cheeks are beginning.

Louis catches his eye in the mirror and turns, and all Harry can see is miles of red lace and warm skin and he has to touch, has to feel the contrast between all the soft heat with the gentle scratch of lace. Harry barely makes it to Louis before he’s falling to his knees, towel forgotten; Louis’ skin is hot, feverish and delicious where Harry puts his mouth. The slip of skin between the suspender strap and the stocking, the inside of Louis’ thigh. Harry’s tongue slips out, darting, before he puts his hands on Louis’ knees and tries to make him step apart a tiny bit further. Breath coming fast above him, Louis complies and Harry sucks the skin into his mouth, teeth clamping down. He’s gentle at first, kissing and sucking and nipping, but he gradually sucks harder, bites rather than nips, until he’s sinking his teeth down firmly and Louis cries out, sharp and weak.

Louis’ cock is straining in his little buttoned panties when Harry pulls back to look at him, the taste of copper/salt/sweat making Harry heady with the earthy scent of sex. Louis is moving his hips in these aborted thrusts and Harry can’t think of anything hotter, watching his husband try and get some kind of friction in all that lace.

Harry’s hands sneak to the buttons, practically burning with impatience himself, and lets his fingers feel the material covering Louis’ hips. He exhales, shaky, over Louis’ dick and Louis bucks into it, moaning. Harry’s lips twitch into a smirk and he bends closer, closer, closer...

He licks teasing kitten licks around the outline of Louis’ sex, hands clutching at the fabric, digging into the skin. The gold flash of his wedding ring, the small diamond of the engagement ring, surrounded by red lace and Louis’ over-heated caramel-coloured skin—Harry doesn’t think he’s ever felt so aroused in his entire life.

Louis whines, then; Harry undoes the third button down and pulls out Louis’ straining cock. The head smearing precome over his mouth, Harry sighs, pleased. Louis chokes and Harry tells him, “Fuck my throat, Lou.”

In no time at all Louis agrees, letting Harry settle his hands on his thighs before he slides his cock between Harry’s puffy red lips. He starts slow, gently moving his hips. Harry doesn’t mind, using the time to open up his throat as each time Louis thrusts down a little further, a little harder, before he’s built a rhythm that’s not quite fast as it is deep. He easily hits the back of Harry’s throat now, Harry’s eyes watering but he takes it because he loves it, loves being used by Louis. Louis in his pretty lace and stockings, so soft and yet so hard, a juxtaposition of his body that makes Harry feel a little unscrewed.

Louis taps his cheek and Harry looks up, eyes still wet, but Louis’ little bra makes him seem so small, so delicate, that Harry gets a look in his eyes he knows Louis’ understands. Louis runs his fingers over Harry’s cheek when he pushes in and he doesn’t stop, hips going forward until Harry can’t breathe at all and the lace is scraping against his face.

Louis groans, mumbles, “It’s so hot that you just take it, god Harry.”

Harry just starts counting, his own dick getting harder and harder in his lap. His heart beat picks up, panicked and excited as he works past any fear that manages to work its way into his head—he knows Louis will take care of him, won’t let anything bad happen to him. He reaches ten and Louis pulls back, gasping, “Gorgeous, fuck.” Louis winds his fingers in Harry’s drying hair, getting a good grip before he fucks his hips forward, hard and fast. He’s not going deep, just shallow thrusts into Harry’s mouth and Harry’s uses his tongue to tease the bundle of nerves underneath the head whenever Louis pulls back. Louis’ breathing quick and heavy within a minute of doing this, when he stops and pulls out entirely.

Harry can’t help the whine that escapes his lips.

“Can I do it again?” Louis asks.

In response, Harry grips Louis’ hips harder and urges him forward. He licks his lips and swallows, opening his mouth for Louis as he slides his cock between his lips, then further, down his throat. Harry’s eyes water, chest tight as he tries again to realise it’s okay that he can’t breathe, it’s Louis, he can’t breathe and it’s okay. The hold he has on Louis’ hips tightens but doesn't push him back, doesn’t think about it. Louis eases himself back, enough that Harry can breathe hard and quick through his nose for a few moments.

“Harry,” Louis whispers, reverent, “Haz.”

Louis does it again and again, longer and longer each time until Harry counts to twenty-five and he gasps, lungs burning. His cock is so hard, dripping, his hips undulating like the movement will somehow help ease the fire in his belly.

“Haz, angel, you’re so amazing, so brilliant. You’re so hot like this, letting me. Love you, love you so much,” he pants, each breath jolting him in Harry’s mouth. “Can I come?”

Harry nods and sucks an affirmative, and within five seconds of Louis sliding down his throat again he’s coming, choking Harry whose tears fall and darken the lace Louis’ wearing. It’s so hot, too hot, Harry can’t breathe and Louis’ moans sound like heaven and he looks like sin, tempting and burning. Harry only has to wrap a hand around his dick before he shudders and groans around Louis who’s taking his cock out of Harry’s mouth, more tears falling and come ruining Louis’ pretty stockings.

There’s come still dribbling from Louis’ slit and Harry gasps for air, wheezing. Louis drops to his knees and kisses the fresh air out of Harry’s lungs. Harry’s vision goes hazy for a second, Louis’ bra against his chest, light-headed; Louis keens gently and helps Harry into a seated position which lets him breathe easier.

Harry mumbles from his post-orgasmic haze and the high from the rush of adrenaline, “You’re so pretty, Lou.”

His voice is croaky, scratched and wrecked, throat likely swollen. Louis kisses him again, briefly, says, “It’s all for you, angel.”

***

The first time they discuss adoption, autumn is crisping the leaves on trees and making everything earthy tones, dark with bursts of yellow or red.

Harry’s eyes are shining, his hands flapping everywhere as he lists all the reasons why they should adopt as though he’s forgotten the fact that Louis is in love with babies as much as he is. They both want children. Harry is an accomplished author and Louis works with children for a living. They have money, passion, a flourishing love for each other which expands every day and want to share their love .

A baby is the perfect thing.

***

The first time they meet their child they’re twenty-six and twenty-seven. It’s been a long process, proving themselves worthy and finding someone willing to let them take their child, but finally the day comes. Harry has yellow paint in his hair, recently cut but long enough that he can tie it back. He has a pair of jeans on that have always been too tight for him, ones he doesn’t really wear anymore just keeps lying around, and a paint-spattered grey jumper. Louis’ left arm is red, scrubbed raw in the hospital bathroom to get the paint off so he could be allowed in to see their baby, his t-shirt too small and purple from the lost and found for the same reason, they’re both in mismatched shoes, Harry’s car full of things they don’t need for the baby just yet and each other full of nerves and excitement.

It is also the first time they get to love someone new.

He’s only a day old, given up for adoption by a sweet teenage girl who refused to agree until she had met them months ago, then as soon as she had she said yes. In the room Diana is crying, holding him, but when they’re finally let through and she sees them her breath catches in her throat. Harry’s heart stops, cold for that one second because she looks so in love and if she wants to keep him there’s no way he could refuse her.

Then she grins, weakly, and holds him out to Louis.

He has gorgeous blue eyes and the cutest set of dimples they’ve ever seen. Harry wants to make a joke about how at long last they have a bun fresh out of the oven; he doesn’t because he’s too distracted by their _son._

Diana doesn’t stop crying and once Harry starts he can’t stop either, letting tears flood down his face while he touches their baby’s tiny palm, gazing at him when his face scrunches, red and so small and beautiful. Louis passes him over, smile blinding and tears blurring his vision too, and the warm weight of their son in his arms is enough to make Harry feel like the luckiest man in the world.

After, when he’s been put into the nursery and they’ve hugged Diana goodbye, reminding her she can always contact them, Harry is literally too stunned to drive.

They walk outside, not having said anything to each other, but then Louis grabs his arm and it’s so tight it hurts, it’s painful, and Harry turns to him and Louis jumps into his arms. He’s crying and then they’re both crying, Harry supporting Louis with everything he has as they grin like absolute fools, past their tears like they are sunshowers.

“Two more days and he’s ours,” Louis says, loud and happy.

“Two days!” Harry shouts, spinning him.

 

They name him Spencer Charlie Tomlinson. It sounds like the name of someone warm.

***

The first time Louis truly feels the exhaustion it is to be a parent is two weeks after they take him home.

They’re both tired, worn out. Spencer cries whenever he’s awake and sleeps for an hour or two at a time before he starts fussing again. There is hardly ever a moment of peace or quiet and Harry and Louis have taken to whispering all the time, even if Spencer’s awake.

Okay, so maybe Spencer doesn’t cry all the time. Sometimes, like now, when Louis’ just fed him, burped him and Spencer’s settled in Louis’ arms with drowsy blue eyes and wrapped in a soft blanket, Louis sits in their huge, cushioned rocking chair and just breathes.

Spencer blinks up at him, startling minutely when he pops out the extended legs of the chair so he can stretch back and put his legs up. Louis inhales deeply enough that Spencer rises noticeably, and watches his son. Spencer watches him back, blinking slowly in the way Louis knows means he’s falling asleep. A minute of gazing at each other and Spencer’s eyes fall shut fully.

Louis shifts further down into the chair, snuggles Spencer closer, and closes his own eyes.

When he wakes up, Spencer is still snuffling away in his arms. It’s very dark outside, orange haze bleeding red as the sun disappears. Inside, the lights are on in the kitchen, Harry singing softly along to the radio on low. There are clatters every now and then, moments of quiet when Harry’s so absorbed in his task he forgets he was singing.

Some minutes go by and Harry pokes his head out of the kitchen into the living room. He clearly can’t see that Louis’ awake because he sighs quietly, tip-toeing over to them. Louis shuts his eyes and Harry kisses his eyebrow, feather-soft. The fruit of his conditioner is all Louis can smell as Harry leans to kiss Spencer’s forehead. Harry inhales deeply for a fraction of a second and that’s all it takes for Spencer to make a weak, upset sound.

Harry’s hair hits Louis in the face again as Harry attempts to shush Spencer, mumbling, “Come on Spence, baby, please let daddy sleep. You know how tired he is, shh, I know you’re waking up, shh, lovely, please.”

Spencer continues to make noise, fussing in his swaddle of blankets, and Harry swears softly. Louis opens his eyes enough to see through his eyelashes as Harry gently takes Spencer out of his arms and starts rocking him. He gets more vocal, huffing out a tiny grunt followed by an odd gurgling sound—a combination that means he’s pooping.

Harry laughs quietly and just rocks Spencer some more on his way out the room. Louis can hear, “Good boy, do your little poo for papa, yes I know that’s what the scrunchy face means. Let’s let daddy sleep, hm?”

If Louis had more energy he’d stand up, shake away the last wisps of tiredness and go help Harry with Spence or dinner or both, maybe clean up a little. Instead the ache of exhaustion has settled uncomfortably into his bones and he curls into a blanket of Spencer’s dropped in the haste to not wake him up, breathes the soft smell of his baby and allows that to take him into a deep sleep.

***

The first time Spencer meets the family, Louis and Harry have travelled to Doncaster. They’re staying with Robin because Louis’ old room was converted into a bedroom for the youngest twins in the Tomlinson household. When they arrive late afternoon at Robin’s, Harry’s childhood home, the whole Tomlinson clan is there minus Lottie who couldn’t come home from uni until the Saturday—today is Thursday and they’re staying for a week. It’s the most time they could get off.

Spence cried himself out early on in their travels, the car rumbling him into a passive state of awareness, eyes wide and hands grabbing out at whatever was in reach, thankfully drinking all his bottle. He drifted off to sleep the third hour into their journey, Louis getting into the driver’s seat so Harry could snap pictures of him. After waking up, though, he was still fussy enough to start wailing a cry that was an entirely new sound. They stopped at a cafe to ask to borrow a microwave to warm up the milk and Harry burned his wrist testing its heat, and after it all Spencer just let it dribble down his chin as he cried. He ended up swallowing some, though he spit it back up all over his white onesie with tiny yellow ducks and imitation duck feet over his small feet. Louis and Harry swapped here, not long away, following a stop at McDonald’s to change him, clean him up and grab a burger each.

Now, Spencer’s growling in his seat, bouncing up and down as they pull into the driveway. He puts his hand in his mouth and Louis pulls it away, unbuckling his own seatbelt and sighing. Spencer looks at his slobbery hand. The turning off of the ignition so that they’re still makes Spencer grunt, a grumpy face replacing his previously curious expression and Louis snorts.

Harry looks at Louis in the mirror and Louis catches his eye, grinning tiredly. Harry smiles back, unlocking his own seatbelt to get out and pick Spence up. They’re still new enough at this that they don’t like leaving Spencer on his own in the car for even a split second, so they have a system wherein one of them takes Spencer out of his car seat while the other sits with him. It’s not like there’s a logical reason for their fears but it makes them feel better knowing that Spencer has one of his parents there to keep him safe.

As soon as Harry passes Louis the keys to open the back of the car, the door opens and people spill out into the driveway. Everything is awash with hazy beams of sunlight, Spencer isn’t crying or spitting up, the married couple are seeing their family for the first time in months and their son is seeing his family for the first time ever.

Daisy is the first to coo at Spencer, jumping up behind Harry’s tall frame in attempts to get a good look at his face. Her and Phoebe are fifteen and still growing, Daisy’s hair dark and her makeup done as taught to her by her older sisters. Spencer doesn’t know how to take this and Harry laughs at the gurgle he makes.

Phoebe hugs Louis tightly, reaching up on her tiptoes to get them on more even footing. Her hair smells tropical and Louis breathes it in, hugging her back just as firmly. Fizz joins them a second later, throwing her arms around Louis and Phoebe like they are a single unit. They’re both dressed warmly and it makes Louis sigh with contentment, his insides fuzzy at seeing his baby sisters again, all grown up. It seems like every time he sees them they’ve changed in a million different ways and while some things remain the same, sometimes it can be hard to learn all these new things. It’s not like he doesn’t phone them a few times a week or chat to them via text or online, but nothing beats seeing them in real life.

Daisy squirms her way into their hug, apparently done trying to see Spencer for the moment. Louis can hear Jay taking Spencer so Harry can hug Robin, Spencer’s quiet grumbles finding Louis’ ears even with three girls swarming him and different conversations taking place.

He’s the first to want out, squeezing out, “Girls, please.”

They back off in an instant; Fizz is almost taller than him, hair long and dark with glasses over her eyes, Phoebe’s a little taller than Daisy with light hair and a big, beaming grin fixed in place by braces with an over-sized sweater and jeans, Daisy’s wearing a cute berry-coloured skirt with a sweater and boots they got her for Christmas. Louis blinks back the tears that somehow get into his eyes.

He glances over at his mum, Ernest and Doris at her feet wearing matching jumpers, Dan at her shoulder; all of them are looking at Spencer, and Spencer looks tiny amongst all those people, tiny and squealing when Dan pokes his tongue out. Doris giggles and Louis watches on as Ernest opens his eyes wide, pouts his lip and asks Jay if he could please have a hold of Spence. Everyone laughs except for Doris who frowns then seems confused at her own frowning, likely upset she didn’t think of it first.

Like any parent, Harry steps away from his father to take Spencer again so that he can crouch down and instruct Ernest on how to hold his arms.

Louis and the girls make their way over to the scene, Robin slipping an arm around Louis for a hug when they get there. Fizz makes a broken sound then whispers, “How’ve you not broken him yet? He’s so small.”

Robin chuckles and Louis feels the sound rest in his bones, comforted and happy. “Oi, I’ll have you know we’ve broken him three times already, we’re just good at gluing him back together. Isn’t that right, Spence?”

Spencer seeks out Louis until he finds him and squeals briefly, eyes bright and quite obviously loving all the attention. He opens his mouth and doesn’t do anything else, just leaves his mouth open as Harry transfers him carefully into Ernest’s arms. Louis makes a noise and Harry’s arms slip under Ernest’s, turning around shortly to grin at his husband. Louis grins back.

Ernie’s attention is all on baby Spencer, his eyes wide as he cradles his nephew. He fish mouths while Doris tries to hold Spencer’s hand, or at least tries to get him to wrap his hand around her finger. Ernest bends over a tiny bit to kiss Spencer’s nose and the expression Spencer makes is enough to shatter the moment, everyone laughing at his crossed eyes and bottom lip pushed down.

Shaking his head at the picture his family makes, Louis steps away from Robin and over to his mum. She kisses his cheek and holds him tight, telling him how proud she is of him and that she loves him dearly, Harry and Spence too. Light sugar and flower scented laughs follow him for the rest of the night.

When they’ve all eaten dinner and had wine, the Tomlinson’s headed home and Robin headed to bed, Louis looks at a wide awake Spencer and rolls his eyes at Harry. Harry scoffs and goes to say something but a yawn overtakes him, his whole body moving with the force of it. Louis steps over the toy play gym they spread out on the floor for Spencer and presses his lips to Harry’s, minty and cool. Harry shifts, leaning up into the kiss and opening his mouth under Louis’ tongue. Spencer whimpers and Harry breaks off to yawn again, so Louis kisses Harry one more time, gentle and slow.

“Be in the kitchen? I’ll get Spence a bottle,” he whispers to Harry. “Love you, angel.”

Harry shuffles down in the sheets of the guest room, his old room too small for the three of them and where they’ve officially set up their son’s cot; they both know it’s likely Spence will sleep with them. Harry waves goodbye, yawning around a, “Night, Lou.”

With a nod, Louis retrieves Spencer from his ‘Cozy Kingdom’ bouncer where he was beginning to hit the bar in front of his head. He takes him into the kitchen to warm up the bottle already made by Jay before she left. It’s a little cold the first time so he re-reheats it for another ten seconds and by the time he stops it before it beeps all over the place, Robin turns the corner. His glasses are on and his hair is greying, wearing an old jumper and a thick pair of pajama pants, Christmas socks despite the fact it’s only October.

Louis stops bouncing Spencer on his hip to smile at Robin, greet him with a nod. Robin steps closer and asks, “Mind if I take him for a moment? I’m afraid I’ve been missing babies since your mother’s twins grew up.”

“Yeah, yeah of course, here,” Louis murmurs, trying not to be too loud to avoid waking Spencer up further. He passes his son over to Robin and can tell the moment Robin’s there and the moment he’s remembering something Louis doesn’t know. His eyes beneath his glasses are rimmed red, smile soft and fond.

The milk in the bottle is just warm enough now but Louis doesn’t really want to disturb the intimacy between his finally quiet son and his step-father in law. Robin notices Louis’ hovering and Louis ducks his head slightly.

He wonders out loud, “I hate to ask this of you, but would you...”

It doesn’t even take the full sentence for Robin to start agreeing, shifting Spencer to his left arm in order to receive the bottle from Louis’ grasp. Robin answers kindly, “Go, Louis. Go get some rest with my son, you’re both so tired. I’ve got him.”

Louis is about to refuse when he realises he doesn’t want to—what he wants is to sleep next to his husband, their son between them, but Spencer still needs to be fed and Louis’ eyelids are already drooping. So, instead he thanks Robin and ducks out of the kitchen, stepping into the guest room and quietly shucking his trousers to climb into bed. Harry immediately snuggles closer, throwing an arm around his shoulder and kicking a leg between Louis’. His face is smushed against Louis’ back, snuffling snores muffled similar to the sound Spence makes when he’s really tired from a day of wailing.

If there is anything Louis was thinking about before he sank into the mattress, it’s gone when he closes his eyes.

In the morning he wakes to Harry taking Spencer in the doorway, him and Robin talking about Anne.

Harry’s crying, tiny and wet sounds that hurt Louis to hear. Robin hugs him around the baby between them, and Harry whispers, “I just—I wish she was here, that she could see all this, meet Spence and...”

“Harry, son, you know...I like to think she’s watching over all us, laughing at the silly mistakes we make, singing to Spence at night to keep him safe, giving me a little reminder to pick up some milk. She’s here in all the ways she can be, Haz, just know that she loves us wherever she is.”

***

The first time they have sex after taking Spencer home is the day they come home after visiting Doncaster. When Lottie met Spencer he spit up all over her and chuckled for the first time at her shocked face, and when Gem stopped by for a few afternoons she barely paid any attention to anyone but Spencer. He made that small rumbling sound in his throat when she cooed for too long, causing everyone to laugh.

Harry and Louis are fairly confident they can get through it without him waking up, tired from all the attention and the long trip home.

Harry’s bringing his hips forward hard and fast, two fingers in Louis’ mouth to stop any sounds from escaping, not that they’d be loud enough to wake their baby up (Louis’ always been more breath than sound). Louis’ mouth is closed loosely around the fingers, opening for the hitches in his throat as Harry hits his prostate.

Harry would put a hand on his own mouth but he doesn’t think he’d be able to thrust as well as he can without a hand braced against the mattress. Rather, he moves his fingers from Louis’ mouth where the bite marks of his pointed teeth will bruise, a moan escaping from Louis that’s desperate, wild and lost like all he wants is to be found.

Harry swallows the end of it as he pushes his mouth onto Louis’ and the connecting of their lips is what pushes Louis over the edge, his swears contained by Harry’s mouth. Harry continues to rock forward, faster and wetter until he’s groaning against Louis’ tongue, vibrating and hot.

(Louis likes to use this as proof they can still have hot sex.)

(Harry likes to use this as proof that he can last longer than Louis.)

(Louis uses that to laugh and say, “Of course you can.”)

(In the end it doesn’t matter anymore.)

***

The first Christmas Spencer spends with them, they head back to Doncaster.

He’s better, less fussing and more sleeping.

For Louis’ 28th birthday they all have his favourite meal, the whole family managing to squeeze into the dining table with both sets of twins at a smaller table reserved for times like these. He has cake and sits Spencer in his lap to help blow out the candles. Spencer wriggles far too much but as soon as Gemma lifts him up he falls asleep, lulled by her gentle rocking.

Christmas day involves a lot of pictures of Spencer lying on his play gym surrounded by shreds of wrapping paper.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1: “Good afternoon, can I help you?” she asks, eyes dark and friendly. “Something for your girlfriend? Wife?”
> 
> i love their bAby!!! i made him andn i love him (he was originally named adrian and i realised when fixing it up that that name didn't suit him at all).
> 
> comments literally give me life, so it would be cool if you let me know what you thought? 
> 
> love you all


	7. melt your headaches (call it home)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> custard, signing, first word, olivia anne tomlinson

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i think i update too quickly; i'm going to have to finish writing it and that will take days good lord
> 
> title from 'northern downpour' by panic at the disco (doab came out yesterday i fucking love golden days and dtmwagt)
> 
> I EDITED THIS IF U READ THIS BEFORE 19/01/16 I HAVE CHANGED IT BY ADDING 2 FIRSTS im sorry! i did it and forgot i uploaded this part already im so sorry its not that important its just nice

The first time Spencer eats custard is hilarious. Harry and Louis both have the day off, having worked out a schedule where they alternate days of working and staying home with Spencer. Harry’s just finishing up the novel he’s been avoiding finishing since before Spencer’s birth and now his editor William is sending him messages every few hours about the nearing deadline.

Five months exactly after he was born, Harry thrusts one of their many baby books at Louis and tells him this age is the optimal time to get him started on solid foods. The trip to the shops is only eventful when Spencer sees another baby and whacks his arms up in the air before bringing them down to smack on his little legs, the other baby sucking on a dummy that falls out of their mouth. Spencer kicks his legs and one of his tiny booties falls off, Harry’s heart swelling as he starts to squeak and babble excitedly.

The woman pushing her baby in the cart laughs, bending down to retrieve the dummy. She asks, “How old is yours?”

Louis beams at her, always proud of Spence, causing Harry to chuckle behind his hand when he answers, “He’s five months today, actually. Yours?”

“Six months and seven days,” she replies cheerfully. “She and I are just doing the weekly shop, aren’t we sweetpea? Hm?”

Her baby gurgles happily while her mother pulls another dummy from her bag, handing it over for the baby to play with. All three parents watch on fondly as she puts her fingers through the open section then slobbers all over it.

Spencer grumbles and Harry laughs at him, stepping over to where he’s trying to wiggle around in the pram.

He unbuckles him and babbles at Spence for a little, ranging his pitch up and down trying to get the baby to copy him. Spencer blows a bubble and Harry laughs, picking him up out of the pram to show him the other baby. He doesn’t show much interest, so Harry leaves Louis chatting to the woman and takes them down the aisle with the baby foods.

Harry adjusts the way he’s holding Spencer so he can see the options. “Which one, bub? Which one does little baby Speb wanna try?”

Of course, Spencer doesn’t choose anything so Harry shifts him a little higher on his hip and takes two options between his long fingers. One of them is pureed apple and pumpkin, the other is banana custard. He holds them in front of his son, moving his hand to capture his attention.

“Pick one, Spence; it’s your lunch today,” Harry reveals with a cheery smile, bouncing the boy on his hip. Spencer makes a little sniffily sound and Harry whispers conspiratorially, “Go with the custard, baby boy, tastes better.”

As though he understands his father, Spencer makes grabby hands at the small tin of custard. Harry grins.

Back at home they stock everything away except for the custard, the small bowl they got as well as the spoon. They debate using the highchair but Spencer hasn’t learned how to sit up properly yet and would probably slide down uncomfortably against the straps holding him in.

Instead Harry settles Spencer into his bouncer, putting on a melody to distract him while he heads to the kitchen to sort out the custard. Louis stays to hype Spencer up for his custard.

When he comes back with the custard Louis’ listening to Spence babble out a load of sounds, mostly ‘buh’ and ‘puh!’ Spencer pauses and Louis babbles back, taking his voice higher as he tries out different noises. Spence nods, jerky movements, but only pokes his tongue out.

Louis rolls his eyes and the action locks his gaze with Harry’s. Harry smiles and places the baby-sized yellow bowl in Louis’ hands in front of Spencer; he looks up at Harry like he’s been betrayed, immediately disliking the look of the custard. It makes Harry snort and think _me too,_ glancing again at the yellow mush.

Below him Louis observes the happening and then peeks up at him, grinning cheekily as he tilts his head up a little further. Harry knows what that means and he snorts again, sing-songing, “Lazy,” against Louis’ mouth.

Louis’ grin grows fond as he pulls away. “Thanks, babe.”

“Welcome.”

Louis accepts the spoon from Harry, dipping it in the custard to mix it while Harry settles down next to him. Harry takes Spencer from his bouncer and sits him upright in his lap, holding onto his hands to bounce him up and down. Spencer giggles out a wet laugh.

Louis stares at them fondly, smiling back when Harry grins over at him. He clears his throat, capturing Spencer’s attention, before declaring seriously, “Okay, lovely boy, be prepared for one of the best things you’ll ever experience. This is custard, and we’ll be taking turns at who gets to eat it. First, daddy will have some, then papa, then you. That way we’ll be sharing and you get to see how yummy it is,” and Spencer looks very serious too, mimicking Louis’ expression.

Louis lifts the spoon from the bowl and Spencer, distrustful, sticks his hand in his mouth. It’s so adorable Harry opens his mouth to ‘aw’ but instead receives a spoonful of custard. He opens his eyes widely and Spencer bursts out with sweet laughter, twisting to look at his father’s face while Louis makes some encouraging noises. Harry shakes his head but makes approving sounds in his throat before he swallows. He looks straight into Louis’ eyes as he remarks, “Yum! Thank you, but I thought _daddy_ was going first?”

Louis grins and winks. “Your mouth was open and I thought it wanted to be filled, papa.”

Harry smirks and Louis shoves a spoon of custard in his own mouth unceremoniously. Then it’s Spencer’s turn and he looks somewhat affronted by the little blue spoon. Louis says, “Open wide, Spenny,” and opens his own mouth so their son will repeat the gesture. Spencer does just that, imitating his dad by stretching his small, pink mouth open. Harry pries his hand away, letting the spit wet his own hand as Louis moves the spoon forward cautiously. He slips the spoon into Spencer’s mouth; Louis presses his lips together.

Spencer follows suit then makes a face at the new feeling on his tongue and immediately his mouth is back open and he’s spitting it out onto Louis’ face.

Harry doesn’t move and their son’s eyes go wide as he sees the result of what he’s done. It takes half a second before he’s laughing again, loudly from his belly. Harry joins in and Louis raises his eyebrows. He moves away to wipe the custard off and when he comes back Harry’s feeding Spencer spoonful after spoonful, Spencer dribbling half of it onto his bib but it’s better than nothing. Harry pokes his tongue out at Louis, waggling his eyebrows and Spencer copies Harry, more custard spilling out of his mouth. Instantly Louis whips his phone out to take a picture and kisses Harry’s head through his hair afterward.

***

The first time Harry has to take Spencer to a book signing with him, Spencer’s eight months and just beginning to crawl. Louis has a football match with his eldest team of kids that he can’t miss, they haven’t got a babysitter as their schedule has never clashed so abruptly before. All their friends (who they’d trust with Spencer) live too far away for either of them to drop their son off and still arrive at their respective occupations on time, the closest being Zayn and Liam who are forty minutes away.

“I won’t have any time to watch over him! I’ll be too bloody busy doing my job, _coaching_ my kids! I can’t fucking take him,” Louis protests, not even looking at Harry as he stomps around looking for his car keys. “Bloody... Have you seen my fucking keys, Harry?”

Harry rolls his eyes, bouncing a wailing Spencer on his hip. He knows where the keys are, on the bench next to the fruit bowl, but he’s not telling Louis shit. “Lou, I can’t fucking take him either you know; I’m signing books by _hundreds of people_. Spence hasn’t even been around that many people before, let alone people making the amount of noise they do. You’ve been, it’ll frighten the shit out of him!”

He has to yell to be heard over Spencer as well as the fact that he can’t actually see Louis, who’s in their bedroom. He hears Louis trip over Spencer’s play gym, hissing out swear words under his breath that still reach Harry’s ears. Louis makes a reappearance then, shaking his head in frustration.

“Look, Harry,” he announces, voice tired, “I don’t have time for this ‘my bullshit is more important than yours’. I’ve gotta go otherwise my kids won’t get to warm up with me and I won’t get to chat to ‘em. Can I borrow your keys?”

Mouth dropped open, Harry can’t believe Louis’ audacity. He just exhales harshly, frustrated as Spencer gets louder and louder. Harry leans over the bench to grab Louis’ keys and throw them at him, not saying a word when Louis kisses his and Spencer’s cheek goodbye.

Spencer doesn’t stop within the twenty minutes Harry has until he has to leave; he doesn’t think of a solution, just straps Spence into his highchair while he rushes around to grab anything he thinks Spencer could want to help pass the hours. His car already has a nappy bag stocked, so he takes three empty bottles, the formula tin, a bowl and spoon with several kinds of canned baby food. A few toys, his bouncer packed up and the bouncer-walker combo they only got last month when he started to crawl.

The bags strapped around his body, bouncer and walker barely held by his left hand with Spencer on his hip, Harry heads out.

Eventually as Harry nears the book shop he’s driving to Spencer tires himself out and falls into a deep sleep, head lolled in his seat. Harry keeps breathing, in and out, to try and settle himself. The quiet does him some good, making him feel relaxed and ready for the day ahead of him.

He’s still pissed at Louis, but that can wait until they get home.

Harry pulls up behind the shop, a flutter in his stomach as he drives past almost fifty kids already lined up, even though the store doesn’t open for another twenty minutes and he doesn’t start signing until half an hour after that.

His editor is waiting for him, smile on his face as he greets Harry. William Levitt is the same age as Louis, tall and lean with angular limbs and warm-coloured skin. He’s been with Harry since his very first novel and they’re mates now; William was at his wedding and has babysat Spencer a few times when Harry and Louis go on date nights.

Harry gets out of the car and tells William what happened this morning, gesturing to Spencer in the back seat with his mouth hanging open while he sleeps.

William blinks, saying, “So...you have Spencer for the whole day? Louis just... Okay, right. Good thing he’s asleep? I can go tell the people out front to be quiet, maybe we can ask the bookstore to print signs or something?”

Sighing with relief, Harry starts to take everything in the back entrance of the bookshop, leaving Spencer with William as he unloads it all.

Once everything is set up, baby in his bouncer, Harry himself makes an appearance at the front of the shop to open it up. The people begin tittering with excitement, chatter already getting louder as he approaches.

He steps outside, his fans a rather mixed bunch who immediately pipe up to say good morning and tell him their thoughts and opinions on his last novel and the earlier one.

Harry raises his arms, stopping them. He laughs and they laugh with him, letting him speak when he opens his mouth. “Hi, everyone. Firstly, you’re the most amazing people ever being so dedicated for _me_ ,” he laughs. “Secondly, this might...well. I have my eight-month-old son asleep inside.”

Many people coo and make ‘aw’ sounds, causing Harry to beam and nod. “His name’s Spencer if you didn’t know,” he explains, “and he’ll probably wake up later but he’s been fussing all morning and it would be wicked if you could try and...stay quiet for him? I can leave him in the back but when he wakes up he might freak out a little, somewhere new without me or Lou.”

The girl at the front of the line grins, flicking her fringe out of her blue eyes. “Yeah, like, of course.”

Everyone agrees with her eloquently worded affirmation and Harry smiles, relieved. 

When the signing starts, most people give Spence the attention he deserves. Harry actually has to wake him up when it’s time for his bottle, his face set into a disgruntled frown before he starts drinking the milk, hands grabbing at the bottle for himself but never getting a real grip. Those in line are content to watch the sweet interaction between father and son, but once he gets started Harry passes Spencer over to William to continue the signing.

Afterward, Spencer is wide-eyed and playful, tears from the morning completely forgotten as he babbles away at each new person at the front of the line, sometimes turning to Harry or William to chuckle or reassure himself with someone familiar. One person, in particular, gets blown bubbles, Spencer kicking his legs delightedly. He gets situated in his walker after this, and William walks with him as he toddles and rolls his way around the area.

All in all, it’s a fairly successful day, finishing late afternoon when the sky starts drizzling.

Just as Harry signs the last person’s copy of one of his books, Louis comes bursting through the door. He’s dressed in muddy shoes, jeans, and a rain-soaked jersey and he’s holding a paper cup in his right hand, a ring box in his left. He’s panting, hair dripping and grin sheepishly when he locks eyes with Harry.

Spencer squeaks, his attempt at squealing in recognising Louis. Harry stares as Spencer hurries to move his small legs, rolling his way over to Louis with William a step behind. Louis smiles at William, nodding hello and passing him the paper cup before shoving the box in his pocket to wiggle their baby from his seat.

More delighted noises gurgle from Spencer’s mouth while Louis peppers his face with kisses, saying, “Hello, beautiful baby boy! How have you been, you gorgeous bub? Good for papa, or did you get up to a lot of mischief?”

He’s drifting towards Harry and when he gets through the people milling around, his smile is more genuine. Louis’ eyes are sorry and Spencer squirms when a drop of water touches his face.

Transferring Spencer to his hip, Louis digs into his pocket and pulls out the box. He struggles to his knee, baby still squirmy like a very big worm, but when he’s there he drops the box on the table in front of Harry and shrugs.

“I...shit,” Louis begins, rasping a little. “I’m sorry I was such a—or...shite _,_ I’m terrible at this, sorry,” he laughs weakly. Spencer grips his hair, tugging, but Louis just winces and tries again. “I’m sorry for this morning, Haz. I didn’t...I didn’t think it through, I was just rushing to try and get out, and I couldn’t find the keys and Spence was crying and... I know that doesn’t excuse what I said which was total rubbish, and I’m really f—I’m sorry. So, I got you a ring?”

Harry opens the box and it’s a relatively large ring, silver metal sliding around an amber stone. He looks up at Louis, breath caught, and Louis shrugs again. “The woman said amber was marital and romantic love, so...”

Louis trails off and Harry practically leaps over the table to kiss him.

***

The first time they discuss getting another child, it’s nearing Spencer’s first birthday. A month away, the 18th of July; Louis leaves a pamphlet to the adoption agency on the dining table and hides in the living room with Spencer until he hears Harry’s sharp inhale and lets himself grin.

***

The first time Spencer says a real word, he’s fourteen months old.

Louis dislikes saying 'months' rather than just saying a year and 3 months, but Harry likes it so he continues to say it like that. When Spencer hits turns two Harry’s planning to start with years. Until then, he is going to pretend Spencer is still small enough for months.

They’re bantering about it one morning, Spencer’s breakfast forgotten beside Harry’s cereal bowl. Louis’ hand is resting on Spencer’s arm, neither of them watching when he gets frustrated and knocks Louis’ arm off. The babbling baby isn't something they're concerned about, teasing each other over the tumble of sounds coming out of Spencer's mouth. Louis doesn’t not feel the movement so much as let his arm fall in his lap with a glance at his son and his wide eyes. Something bubbles warm in his chest like fondness as Spencer's nonsense gets more concentrated with attention. However, he gets roped back into Harry's teasing grin telling him he's trying to get out of the conversation by pretending to be infatuated with their child. It means they don't notice when Spencer throws his arms up, brushing his cheeks, to smack his hands down on the plastic table.

Like a sitcom, their heads move together to see Spencer as his hands wave in little, dizzy circles. Seeing that he has both their attention, Spencer stretches his arm at his bowl and blurts out a single word.

October the 23rd goes down as the day he says, “Da!”

(Louis gloats for _years_ that it was his name Spencer said first.)

***

The first time they meet their daughter Olivia Anne Tomlinson, Louis hasn’t breathed properly since they got the call. They had met up with a woman who was only a few weeks pregnant and knew already that she didn’t want to be a mother. She hadn’t yet approved them but Harry and Louis weren’t in any rush for her to agree with her many months left.

Spencer’s stringing together short sentences now, two months from turning two. He likes saying his own name a lot, or at least trying to.

The day of is June the 2nd, they’ve just settled Spencer into bed when the phone rings.

It’s the agency, the woman on the other end’s voice frantic as she tells them someone died shortly after childbirth, they have no family—grandparents and older have passed away, both parents from one child families died in a car accident several years back, no one else is listed or known to exist—and their daughter is currently parent-less, screaming and alone.

It’s so unlikely that anyone would die from childbirth, and then not have any family, that Louis lets Harry shuttle him and Spencer into the car. Harry does up all their seatbelts, Spencer still yawning, and Louis stares at Harry going way over the speed limit and says nothing at all.

Nearly two hours later they arrive at the hospital, their son now wide awake and chattering to himself in the backseat. Louis blinks and Harry’s unbuckling Spencer, leaving Louis to undo his own seatbelt and trail after him into the place where they meet their daughter.

As soon as they enter the maternity ward it is a cacophony of screams and cries. Spencer’s eyes begin to water where he’s toddling next to Louis, face scrunching up. Louis puts his hands over his ears and Spencer looks up, mouthing words Louis can’t hear. He puts his hands over Louis’ and they keep following Harry who’s moving forward in large strides like nothing could stop him.

Louis notices he accidentally has one sparkly gold boot on one foot and a worn out brown leather boot on the other. It distracts Louis’ racing heart for a moment as he glances down at his own shoes—the same football cleats he wore two weeks ago to the parents vs children game, where he played with his kids against their parents. They’re still a bit muddy, but thankfully they’re matching. Spencer’s wearing slippers, though, and Louis has a flash of miniature socks.

He shakes the image away, realising Harry’s talking to a nurse. The nurse has a hand on his hip, frowning shortly until suddenly his face clears and he smiles gently. He begins to lead Harry away and Harry looks back, motioning Louis to come now.

Louis picks Spencer up and tells him to keep covering his own ears while they move further into the ward. Spencer nods, curling his fingers and pressing tightly, face shoved into Louis’ neck.

The next thing he knows they’re in the room with eight tiny babies, all of them crying.

A different nurse is there, a sticker on xer chest announcing xer pronouns excitedly. Xe smiles feebly at Harry, Louis and Spence behind him, and explains that the little girl in xer arms is the reason for all the other babies crying. Louis doesn’t hear anything past that, if there is, because he’s focused all his attention on the bundle in the nurse’s arms.

She’s _tiny_ , a miniature human being wrapped in two different blankets, face so red it’s almost purple, fine wisps of brown hair on her head and Louis—he sees her and he _knows_ , bone deep, that they’re taking her home.

A short glance at Harry reveals his eyes are watering and he turns to Louis, mouth open like he has something to say but doesn’t know how to say it. Louis’ sure his face looks incredibly ugly, the way he can feel it warp as he tries not to cry and simultaneously grin at Harry, because Harry chokes on a laugh and the nurse moves the baby in xer arms.

The woman from the adoption agency makes an appearance ten minutes later, having to take care of some things before she can tell them that after a shitload of paperwork, this tiny girl is theirs.

Spencer starts crying shortly after, three of the babies including his new sister still making a racket, and Louis takes him outside for a breather. He lets Spence know that the baby making the most noise in there is going to be his sister and Spencer starts crying all over again in despair, shaking his head. Louis laughs and says he used to cry like that too, but Spencer refuses to believe.

He calms down, though, and back inside Harry is cradling the baby so close to his chest, one hand almost half the size of her.

Louis forgets how to breathe in that second.

Harry doesn’t look up and Spencer’s ears are covered again but he’s staring as Harry steps closer to them, mesmerised by the sobbing baby. He shouts to Louis, “Spen’s?”

Louis grins so hard he’s pretty sure his face is splitting in two. “Spen’s.”

***

The first time everyone meets her is four days later on a Sunday. They came as quickly as they could, Gemma and her husband Kyle, belly swelling gently, packed in a car with the two youngest twins and Robin with Jay and Dan driving the car with the older twins. Lottie and Fizzy come in Lottie’s car, both at the same university.

It took them three days to name her, tossing up between different options until Louis suggested calling her Petunia and Harry blinked and said _Olivia_.

Their families pile into the hospital room, the day they’re taking her home. Even though neither Harry or Louis gave birth, they were given a room to spend time alone with their daughter, and they’re in there when Gemma opens the door and demands, “Baby.”

Louis looks at Harry who starts laughing. His husband stands to hug his sister but she grins, pushing his shoulder back as everyone spills passed her. She repeats, “Baby, Tomlinson,” and now Louis grins. He adjusts the sleeping girl in his arms, swathed in her blankets, and stands. Spencer gets caught in greetings by his family so Louis goes to Gemma and hands her over.

Gemma’s eyes go so soft and she runs a finger down the side of her face. She takes a second to look at Louis, asking quietly, “Named her yet?”

She clearly hasn’t checked her phone for the billion pictures they’ve sent, captioned with her name, but Louis beams anyway when he answers, “Olivia Anne.”

Gemma’s eyes are watery immediately and Harry comes to stand by Louis, unintentionally mirroring Gemma and Kyle, standing behind her, just as enraptured with Olivia as his wife is. Harry wraps his arm around Louis’ waist, pulling him close, and Louis is enveloped by warmth and a fresh scent. He twists his head away from Olivia, content to let Gemma admire her, and Harry’s mouth clacks open. It’s watermelon gum, he sees, and he frowns at Harry’s technique.

Harry kisses his nose and Louis rolls his eyes, settling back into his side.

Gemma passes Olivia to Kyle whose breath catches audibly in his throat. Louis steps away from Harry, hand squeezing his hip, to greet the rest of his family.

Before they leave, they get a photograph of Spencer pretending to sleep in Olivia’s little bed for the past few days, and everyone crowds around while Jay gives Olivia a bath. At the first touch of water to her head she makes a face that could almost be considered a smile and Louis won’t stop beaming.

***

The first time Spencer holds Olivia properly, it’s a Tuesday. He’s sat in the plushly cushioned rocking chair that doubles as a lounge chair, really, propped up by pillows and dressed in a small blue jumper. Harry’s armed with the camera as Louis bends down, fitting Olivia into Spencer’s lap. She’s wearing a knitted cardigan from Robin over a plain onesie, tiny lavender mittens from when Gemma was a baby covering her tiny hands.

Louis guides Spencer’s arms, blanket on Harry’s shoulder, until Spencer has Olivia wrapped, hands curling on her arm and one over her waist. Spencer keeps looking up at Harry, though, and Harry has to prompt, “Look at your sister, Spence. Isn’t she small?”

He glances down at her and she snorts quietly but is otherwise unworried in her sleep.

Spencer’s eyes jump to Harry, making sure he’s looking before he bends down to kiss Olivia’s temple. Harry gets the picture and Spencer beams at him afterward.

Spencer then holds his arms out a little, shifting Olivia forwards, and tells Louis, “I have ‘nough now.”

Louis takes her quickly and Spencer almost trips over his own feet hurrying to Harry to look at the photos. Louis rolls his eyes at Harry and Harry laughs, bending down to show Spencer the photographs.

Olivia starts fussing in Louis’ arms and Louis takes her out of the room. Harry can hear her start to cry and his eyes water, he shivers and has to fight off the urge to go and help her quiet. His fingers shake a little but Spencer distracts him, asking for the next picture, and he breathes deeply.

It’s hard, but he refrains from getting up. It was the same with Spencer when he was a baby, but he’s never had to resist before.

Spencer grins up at him, chubby cheeks and blue eyes, and it’s a little easier to stay.

***

The first time Harry realises there isn’t enough space in their apartment for two children, Liv’s fallen asleep on the changing table.

He’s in the middle of wiping her bum when he hears her quiet breaths. He puts her legs down and sees she’s fallen asleep. It’s the cutest thing ever and he calls Louis in to come have a look.

What he realises then, when Louis is already there hovering over his shoulder making cooing sounds, is that her changing table is in the corner of their living room because it didn’t fit anywhere else. Her cot is in their room and Louis always kicks his toe on it when he walks past it, her clothes and nappies and bottles are crammed into the office space where they’ve set up Spencer’s room, and Spencer’s getting bruises under his eyes with how thin the walls are and Olivia crying at random hours through the night.

His body bumps into Louis’ when he tries to take a step back and Louis makes an exaggerated ‘oof’ at the contact of their bodies. He’s smiling fondly when Harry looks at him, wrapping his arms around Harry’s neck. Louis kisses him sweetly, chaste, and he pulls back to Harry’s raised eyebrows.

He frowns and Harry’s mouth twitches. “What?”

Harry smiles and says, “Lou...don’t you think we need to upgrade?”

“Upgrade what? Changing tables?”

At Harry’s pointed glance around their flat, the one they’ve spent so many years in together, his face softens when he realises what Harry means. Harry’s smile gets bigger and he asks, “Wanna buy a house with me?”

***

The first time Spencer calls Jay ‘nan’ is the 19th of June, Olivia only seventeen days old. Jay, Dan, and both twins are visiting for the weekend and staying in a hotel ten minutes away. They’re calling Dan ‘grandad’ and that’s too much for Spencer to comprehend enough to say, so he just calls him ‘Spe’. Louis and Harry are each being called ‘da’ and ‘pa’ respectively, but everyone else usually gets some variation of Spencer’s name.

So, when Jay opens the door to their home and says loudly, “Where’s my favourite boy?” it’s a surprise when Louis nudges Spencer forward and Spencer shouts, “Nan!”

This is quickly followed by everyone’s variation of his name, but Louis’ smiling, delighted, as Jay can’t keep her own smile off her face.

Doris and Ernest waste no time running in to launch themselves at Harry, letting the now sixteen-year-olds Phoebe and Daisy wrap around Louis.

Louis’ not sure how it happens but then they’re all wrapped up in a single hug, Dan and Jay joining from the outside as Spencer wiggles his way into the middle.

Later, Louis’ mum sits him down. Her hair is greying, forty-seven, skin wrinkled with her smile lines and eye crinkles. Her hand is warm on his as they settle into the chairs at the dining table, too small for the space now—Louis can’t believe he didn’t notice how much his family had outgrown the space until Harry pointed it out.

Nearing thirty himself, Louis has to take a second to appreciate how far he’s come.

His mum’s voice startles him out of his reminiscing. “Louis? You know you’ll always be my boy, right?”

Louis can hear Olivia’s waking noises, Spencer proudly introducing her as ‘m Spen’ (my Spencer) and Daisy’s boisterous laugh. He looks into her blue eyes, warm and loving, and answers, “’Course mum. What’s brought this on? Are you okay?”

She laughs gently, patting his hand and shaking her head. “No, I’m fine, Lou. Worry about yourself, you have a daughter now! She’s tiny, Louis! You’re so lucky to have her.”

He ducks his head, fighting off the warmth of affection he has for Olivia and his mother alike, different kinds of love but equal in worth. “I know, mum. Liv, Harry, Spence... I’d give everything for them to be safe. They’re...everything.”

“Take care of them,” Jay says, “love them while they’re here. It all goes so fast.”

Sounds of Harry singing to Olivia in hopes to quiet her cries drift in and he understands.

***

The first time Olivia throws up on Harry, he’s been trying to burp her for maybe a minute now.

He just fed her with one of those fake breast slings so as to imitate a real feeling of being breastfed, something Niall suggested as a laugh and they decided to try. He’s still strapped into it, Louis due home any minute with Spencer from their trip to the park, dinner still has to be finished up and Olivia has been crying since she detached from the teat.

Her little gummy mouth is wide open and Harry bounces her a little against his shoulder, patting her back while she continues to cry. After a moment he pulls her back, hand cradling her head while the other cradles her body. He is overcome with love for her. Her red face and tiny curling fingers, eyes scrunched; Harry can’t picture life without her.

“Baby, sweet baby, please, come on. You can do it, Olivia, you sweet girl.”

She cries harder, squeaking breaths and achy whines. Harry sighs, beginning to hum a random melody to capture her attention while he continues to try and burp her. There is a split second where Olivia is quiet and Harry sighs again, relieved, when suddenly there’s a terrible sound next to his ear. A wet warmth begins running down his shoulder and back, then Olivia starts wailing with more intensity than before.

He shifts her so that she’s near vertical in his arms, looking at the mess around her mouth, the wet sliding under his shirt.

“Oh, baby, papa’s got you. It’s okay, here, shh,” he mumbles, heading over to Spencer’s room to clean her up. He can’t ignore the vomit on him and is mostly glad it’s only milk, so as soon as he gently sets her down on Spencer’s bed he takes off his own shirt, cringing as the milk begins to cool.

Harry wipes her face and neck, making sure a clean blanket is swaddling at least a part of her at any given time, and decides to change her nappy while he’s there. Spencer might not be too happy, knowing it happened on his bed, but he isn’t there and Harry figures it’s not really a problem seeing as he changes Spencer on his bed.

She cries herself out soon enough, while Harry’s putting a fresh pair of socks on her arching feet. Olivia stares up at him, occasionally closing her eyes for a few hiccupped cries, but just taking in the movements of her father. Her brown eyes follow him when he’s in frame and her fingers grasp at the air, tongue over her bottom lip. Humming mindlessly now, Harry digs around the portion of Spencer’s room dedicated to Olivia in hopes of finding another blanket for her. Harry makes an ‘aha’ sound when he picks one up and manoeuvres it so it’s wrapped loosely around the other blanket he swaddles her with, tucked around her belly with the first blanket under her arms so she has free reign to branch them out. She smiles, mouth spread wide and dark eyes so full of light. Olivia is soon distracted by her own tongue again, poking it between her lips and looking at her father.

Harry gazes for a moment or a hundred and wonders how he and Louis were so lucky to receive such an amazing gift.

He’s shivering because he has no shirt, smells like curdled milk and will likely not be able to smell anything else for hours; Olivia’s face scrunches, fretting sounds muffled by her own fingers; the front door opens and Louis shouts, “Honey, I’m home!” and Olivia cries properly, startled; Spencer states, “Swing!” and Louis chimes in, “Yes, you did swing, didn’t you? Big boy did it all by himself!”

The noise is enough to make him shudder, scooping up Olivia and feeling her heated skin on his bare chest. He breathes in, shifting the blankets so she won’t get cold from his chilled skin, and thinks he couldn’t be more thankful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in case youre wondering, i have a terrible pantomime of a timeline prepared for when this is over in case you really want to know the ages and years for each happening. thx for reading! 
> 
> ps. i didnt mention but louis' birthday is his real one, harry's is same day/month but 1993 so louis is 2 years older


	8. forever younger growing older

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> louis turns 30, christmas, moving, marie selly valentine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just so you know how much i changed this, originally i tried to skip from custard to 30, and 30 was like 2 lines.. i also wrote gemma entirely today so i havent fixed that up nearly as much as i could have
> 
> title from 'golden days' by panic! at the disco

The first Christmas with Olivia, Harry and Louis make a joint decision to stay at home that ends with them deciding they should not swear in front of their impressionable two-year-old.

(Harry, leaning against the table: Should we spend Christmas with your mum and that?

Louis, feeding Spencer: Fuck that, I’m too tired to even think about packing us up for a few days. They can visit us if they want. So let’s stay; one last Christmas in the flat, hey? It’ll be cool.

Harry, wiping Spencer’s face: ...Hey, Louis, why does everybody like Frosty the Snowman?

Louis, groaning: Don’t, Harry.

Harry: Because he’s so cool!

Spencer, giggling: Fuck.)

Louis’ been whining for a week because he’s turning thirty and Harry keeps making jokes about him being an old man on top of all the Christmas jokes.

The day of, however, Harry wakes Louis up with, “Happy birthday, husband,” and Louis pushes into Harry long and cruel, getting Harry just to the brink before he stops and waits for the moment to pass; Harry doesn’t know why he was whining in the first place if this is his approach to their sex lives now.

In the middle of Louis licking the come off his stomach Spencer starts crying which wakes up Olivia and in turn makes their flat possibly the loudest in the building. Louis sighs, mood ruined, but laughs up at Harry. His laughter means movement on top of Harry’s over-sensitised dick so he hisses, shivering, and Louis looks interested for a moment before Harry shoves him off.

Louis ends up in the living room, dressing Olivia in the outfit Harry set out for her the night prior. It isn’t snowing out but it’s still rather cold, so as he does up a fresh nappy for her he takes a second to look at the clothes resting beside her head. This makes Olivia look too, reaching out to grab at the apricot-coloured onesie and tugging it towards her. Louis lets her go, reaching for the wings and trying, still, not to do it too loosely or tightly.

Harry and Spencer watch the scene from Spencer’s room, Spencer mumbling to himself after Harry changed him and dressed him in warm clothes.

Olivia giggles as she drops the onesie over her face, Louis leaning down to play peek-a-boo with the material. She responds to Louis’ sounds by babbling delightedly, making the noises easiest for her to grasp. Louis imitates her in different tones, different expressions on his face each time—Olivia tries to copy him with these and ends up with a wobbly lip.

Louis shushes her, tickling her gently until she’s sighing happily. Harry tugs Spencer into the kitchen to make breakfast. Spencer looks up, blue eyes wide when he says earnestly, “Toast is here. He wants...bre—bra—bref?”

He stomps his foot when he can’t get the last word right so Harry smiles and answers, “Yeah, bug, Toast can have breakfast.”

Toast is Spencer’s imaginary friend. He only just started mentioning him a week prior and according to several articles Louis read, it’s perfectly normal for Toast to exist. Harry and Louis decided to treat Toast as a real person, who they’ve learned is four years old and likes toast, hence his name.

Spencer grins, blinding and full of his baby teeth.

“What did you two want for breakfast, then?” he asks, glancing at the space where Spencer turns his head. After a little, Spencer turns back and shouts, “Muffins!”

Harry tries not to laugh when Louis chortles in the living room, having heard their son’s answer. “Spence, you can’t have muffins for breakfast. We have yoghurt with some fruit, eggs, oats, toast or a smoothie.”

He frowns, stomping again. “Toast wants muffins.”

“We can make some muffins when we get home, Spencer, but we don’t have any right now. Tell Toast he has to choose something else.”

“No!” he yells.

Harry raises his eyebrows and wonders when Spencer became so defiant. After a moment of looking at his son, silent, Spencer’s eyes huge as he flicks his eyes next to him. He ducks his head and suddenly starts crying. He covers his face with his hands, muffled sounds escaping. Harry bends down as Louis and Olivia come into the kitchen, Olivia in all her layers and Louis with a questioning smile on his face. Harry shrugs.

“Spencer?” he asks gently, reaching out for his son’s shoulders.

Spencer hugs him, sudden and tight. He mumbles, “Toast got scared. I s-scared him. I’m sorry! I have smoothie, please.”

Louis begins to assemble the ingredients on the bench, Olivia complacent on his hip, while Harry tries to get Spencer to stop crying. He tells him Toast probably had to go back to his own family and forgot to tell Spencer, that’s all, he didn’t leave forever. It calms Spencer down enough for Harry to convince him to sit at the table with Louis so he can make the smoothie, as well as his and Louis’ own breakfast.

Within the hour, they’re all fed and dressed. Spencer forgets Toast entirely, biting his hand to stop his giggles when they step outside—Harry has a day planned that he helped with, and he’s having a hard time keeping it a secret.

It makes Louis laugh.

They buckle Spencer into his car seat and Olivia into hers, leaving Spencer to play with her while Harry struggles to fold their double pram into the back of his car. Louis runs up to get the baby bag and comes back with a plush octopus for Spencer. He shrugs when Harry looks at him, grinning.

Harry drives, Louis twisting back to their kids every couple of minutes to check on them like they’ve never been in the car before. Olivia starts crying and Spencer gives her a dummy he finds on the ground, shoving it in her mouth. He puts the toy in her hands and huffs, turning back to the window with a grumpy twist to his own mouth. Louis can’t stop laughing over the sound of the radio and Olivia’s whimpers, while Harry rolls his eyes and hopes to god that the dummy was clean.

Streets are crowded with people doing last minute Christmas shopping and when he finally finds a parking space, Harry wastes no time fixing up the pram and slipping the kids into their seats. Soon enough, they’re in line for a photograph with Father Christmas and Louis hasn’t stopped grinning. The line moves quickly and Harry thanks the forces of the universe that Olivia and Spencer are both not crying. In fact, as Father Christmas gently takes Olivia into his arms, her eyes go wide and Spencer’s beaming ear to ear. Obviously pleased, Spencer’s comfortable on the man’s knee with Olivia half between him and Santa. Olivia grabs onto two of Spencer’s fingers as the second picture is taken.

They get the two printed, both the one where Spencer’s looking straight ahead and the one where he’s smiling down at his sister.

Refusing the pram, Spencer holds Louis’ hand and leads him through the shops, paying special attention to the ones with toys in the windows. Olivia falls asleep and Harry wakes her to feed her, shushing her cries with the bottle in her mouth.

When it reaches lunch, Harry tells Spencer where to go and he jumps once, tugging Louis’ hand through the town, the cold, to get to a tiny, packed cafe. Only, it’s not packed with random people—as many of their closest friends and family who could be there are, shouting ‘Happy birthday!’ as soon as Spencer struggles the door open (Lottie pulls it open from the inside).

Louis’ mouth drops, surprised.

Harry leans behind Louis, kissing softly behind his ear, voice low as he rumbles, “You’re the love of my life, Lou; you being thirty only means you’re one step closer to being a silver fox. Happy birthday, babe.”

Louis calls Harry a prat then captures his mouth is a loving kiss, sweet and intimate like there aren’t twenty people looking at them.

Olivia begins to fuss in her straps, grabbing her tiny beanie and dropping it in her lap. She repeats the action while everyone coos at her and greets Louis personally.

Spencer tugs on his hand and when Harry looks down, he’s holding Toast’s hand too (the air). He smiles and whispers to Harry like it’s a secret, “I’m happy, papa.”

Harry’s heart catches in his throat and he kisses Spencer’s forehead, running a hand over his messy hair. “Me too, Spence. I’m happy.”

Later, Harry kisses Louis alone on their bedroom and presses a box into his hand. It’s a watch Louis’ been wanting, inscribed with ‘ _Always in my heart, HT x’_.

***

The first time Louis’ heart truly swells large enough to leave him breathing with difficulty is Christmas night. Harry made most of their dinner, spending a lot of the day in the kitchen while Louis played with Spencer and Olivia in the living room. He dealt with the grown-up food as Louis dealt with their children—the meal was so delicious that Louis couldn’t stop moaning, causing Harry’s eyes to grow sparkly, Spencer to giggle and let them know Toast thought Louis was in pain. Louis told Toast’s seat that he wasn’t in any pain at all, except maybe the pain that he was going to burst.

Spencer falls asleep at the dinner table, Olivia is falling asleep in her highchair, so Louis shoos Harry and the kids out of the kitchen, telling him to have a rest while he washes up.

Half an hour later, with wrinkled hands and a full belly, Louis makes his way into their living room. The place is a mess of wrapping paper and toys, but all he can see are the three things he loves most.

“Holy shit,” he whispers to himself, awed.

Curled up in the rocking chair, Harry is fast asleep. Olivia is in the crook of his arm and Spencer is tucked against his right side between Harry and the arm of the chair. The plush material looks like it’s swallowing all of them and upon closer inspection, Spencer’s chubby cheeks are squishing his face where it’s shoved into Harry’s stomach.

Olivia snuffles and Harry snores softly in response, Spencer snuggling closer.

Louis takes about a dozen pictures, snapping several of them separately, as a group and then a couple selfies. He can’t stop smiling, breath hitched, and he carries Spencer to his bed first. Spencer yawns as Louis settles the blankets around him, muttering, “Love you.” Louis kisses his cheek, replying, “Love you too.”

Olivia is next and she doesn’t even twitch. Louis still kisses her, careful not to disturb her snuffling.

At last Harry is alone in the chair, stretched out yet also tucked in on himself like he knows their children have left him bare, bereft. Tugging a thick blanket over their bodies, Louis fits himself in Harry’s arms and gives his last kiss of the night to Harry’s feather-soft lips. Harry’s mouth twitches, then falls open to snore a bit more loudly.

Louis never thought he would love a mouth-breather, but alas here he is, feeling the hot breaths ruffle his hair ever so slightly.

Within minutes, he’s dreaming—candy cane Christmas, peppermint kisses and his family, forever.

***

The first time they move into their house, it’s possibly the worst day ever. There is rain, hail and loud bangs of thunder. Robin, Jay, Dan, Zayn, Liam, Niall, Sara and Sara’s brother Daniel are all helping the two men transfer their furniture from the moving van, the youngest set of twins keeping Spencer entertained while Olivia wails as the older twins don’t let her crawl on the bare wooden floors. Gemma wanted to come but being a month away from expected delivery of her baby, she and Kyle were told to stay home.

Louis steps past his sisters once and Olivia looks up, quiet for a second, utter betrayal in her eyes like she knows he’s the reason behind this—he turns away and tells Harry the tale after he escapes. Harry giggles and Louis leaves Harry to tend to her for the rest of the day.

Now that they packed their life into two trucks, Louis can’t picture how they fit it all in their flat. Well, okay, that’s not true because it’s bright in his mind, memories of the last years at the front of his mind clashing with the newer memories of indented carpets and blank walls. He can easily see everything organised into their particular places, the way they could only use one side of the dining table because the other was shoved against the wall, how sometimes squeezing past Harry in the kitchen to the refrigerator for some juice proved impossible, Liv’s changing table always catching his toes as he went by, the trouble fitting Spencer’s bed into the office space next to the desk.

What he truly means is that he can’t believe they’re here—months looking for a house and seeing the previous resident’s paisley curtains, white-washed cupboards and different coloured doors, their mismatched furniture and the brick fireplace, hinting at the age of the house. Seeing the wooden floorboards, broad and light, the sun streaming in the windows on the one good day in two weeks, looking at Harry’s face and hearing Spencer thud up the stairs.

And now it’s their mismatched furniture, their coloured doors and paint cards spread on the white marble counter in the kitchen, their square shower head and four bathrooms like they need that many, five bedrooms and two living spaces, a garden with a patio and visions of their family here. Mosaic tiles in the ensuite with a double vanity, rooms with expansive windows and their lives ahead of them.

Louis assists in unloading the furniture, getting soaking wet with Sara and Niall who are taking the manchester and various boxes from Liam and Daniel, protected from the rain by the truck. Liam laughs at Louis shaking his dripping hair from his face, using the rain coat to cover Olivia’s bouncer. Louis rolls his eyes and shakes his head a little more forcefully, drops flying out to hit Liam who squawks with indignation, much to the amusement of Zayn who leans against the porch.

Zayn, Harry and Dan are all hanging under the cover to take the items from the three in the rain to deliver them to Jay and Robin, inside chatting as they place them in the appropriate rooms. 

Louis’ delivery of the bouncer goes to Harry who swipes his hair back and licks his cold cheek. The noise that jumps out of Louis’ throat is similar to the one Liam made not half a minute ago, all three men under cover laughing. As thanks, he shakes his head and hears everyone giggling when Zayn’s hands fly to his newly dyed hair.

It takes an hour of all of them working together for all their things to be moved from the vans to their house, Louis shivering as he strips off his wet clothes and tears open the only box of clothes in the master bedroom. They turn out to be Harry’s pyjamas, so Louis chooses a pair of thick, fleecy bottoms and an old band t-shirt which is on the verge of threadbare. He trudges downstairs; Harry sees him, rounding the corner to the staircase, and then Harry is licking into his mouth, his back against the railing.

He breathes out roughly when Harry pulls back, eyes wide, and marvels, “This is ours, Louis Tomlinson. Ours.”

Voice solid, Louis promises, “Ours, Harry Tomlinson.”

***

The first night in the house, everyone sleeps in the master bedroom. Spencer on the side near the door, arm stretched out to rest on Toast’s knee who insisted on sleeping upright on the bedside table (Spence told them it was his last night with them, too attached to their old home) and Harry next to him, son’s leg over his thigh, toes digging in occasionally. Louis’ on the other edge, blankets twisted and curled into Olivia who sleeps dead centre, her own pillow encasing ensuring she doesn’t roll over or them onto her.

Harry and Louis’ opposite hands are tangled below Olivia, Harry’s other hand tucking around Spencer meaning he’s practically star-fishing.

In a few hours Spencer will wake up with a sore arm and start crying, Toast having left without saying goodbye; Olivia’s nappy is full and extra soggy; Louis’ back will ache from having curled the way he did; Harry will sleep on, oblivious.

For now, though, everything is quiet and dark.

***

The first time Gemma has a baby, she’s in labour for _hours_. She calls on their way to the hospital, calm to Kyle’s harried emotions. She tells Louis—the only one of the two of them bothered to make the sacrifice to get up at two in the morning—that she’s having contractions and her water broke. She tells him it would be really ace if they could make it, which hospital she’s going to, then hangs up with a groan.

Stuffing their kids in the car proves easier than expected as Olivia stays asleep and Spencer falls asleep quickly after the car ride begins.

Louis’ driving because he was awake first but Harry is wide awake, texting Gemma and Kyle equal thousands of question marks and exclamation points. His long leg is bouncing and Louis knows he isn’t wearing underwear under his jeans in his haste to get dressed, knows that the jeans must be scraping against his crotch and knows from experience that doesn’t feel great.

It’s also moving the car, knee jostling against the dash every time he bounces it.

Louis reaches over, settling his hand over Harry’s thigh. Harry keeps moving his leg regardless.

“Babe,” Louis muses, “you’re moving us.”

Suddenly there is stillness. Louis adjusts his position, tensing his thighs and digging his fingers into Harry’s thigh before curling them into his palm and dragging his knuckles up. Harry hisses and Louis smirks in the glow of the dashboard.

He’s just about to move his hand higher when Harry’s phone rings. In that moment, Louis’ lost his husband to technology as Harry fumbles his fingers to answer the phone call, pushing Louis’ hand off his leg entirely. It hits the emergency brake and Louis exclaims, “You _shoved me off_ , my own husband!”

Harry throws his free hand over to Louis’ face, flailing blindly but hitting Louis’ glasses, and Louis makes a sound of indignation, scoffing and saying, “Ugh,” at the same time. He huffs and lets Harry talk to whoever’s on the phone for a moment.

Except Harry tells them, “Just wait a sec, Louis’ being an arse. He’s trying to interrupt me.”

“Louis’ being an arse,” he pantomimes, throat rumbling with his imitation of Harry’s timbre. “He’s trying to interrupt me. How could he? Louis, my favourite person, an arse. Shocking.”

Harry rolls his eyes, swatting Louis again, but Louis tugs on a curl in his hair and presses _speaker_. They listen while Kyle speaks, less frantic than he had sounded on the phone before they left but not quite as calm as Gemma was.

“Oh my fucking god, Harry, she’s screaming, she’s evil, why did I marry her. Bloody hell she’s screaming for me, I can hear her, I’ve got to go. Get here soon, your sister’s terrifying; I love her but she could be a bloody demon, mate. Tell Lou ‘n that I love ‘em. Ah? Gem! I’m coming!”

“Thank god we didn’t have to go through that,” Louis remarks, returning both hands to the wheel while Harry locks his phone.

Harry breathes out before he laughs. “I kind of wish we did, though. You’d have that sensation to carry with you for the rest of your life, this thing that had lived inside you for so long and you have to push them out.”

“Who do you think would get pregnant, me or you?”

Face shifting into a frown, Harry seems stumped when Louis peeks a glance over at him from the empty road. “Huh,” he drawls. “No clue.”

Louis answers his own question with, “I’m glad we can’t do that either, actually. I quite think we’d be near-constantly pregnant, babe. It might be obvious to say you’d be pregnant at first, but probably before you’d even given birthed our first baby I’d be swelling with the second.”

Harry tilts his head. “I can see that. Like, you’d be so in love with my tits that we’d be having more sex than we are now, which, probably three times a day or something. We’d go out, looking at baby clothes, and you’d throw up all over the floor and the lady who comes out to clean it up just looks resigned.”

“Angel,” Louis laughs, “oh god, I’d be crying, ‘ _Angel_ , _angel’_ and she’d look up like I’m looking into heaven for divine help, but it’s just you wearing those sneakers we got matching. We’d be a mess.”

They spend the rest of the drive chatting with each other about their lives in a world where they’d get pregnant, Harry insisting their children would call him ‘mum’. Louis’ fine with that, but he has to keep telling Harry he thinks his own pair of tits would be much better, even proposing theft of the soft, threadbare white t-shirt Harry wears to bed every chance he can.

By the time they’re pulling into the hospital parking lot after another two hours, Olivia—ever the early riser, much to their chagrin—begins to stir.

Harry abandons all sense of their own family when Louis kisses him sweetly and tells him to go ahead. He jogs into the hospital and Louis leans over to unbuckle Spencer from his booster seat. He jostles his shoulder gently and Spencer groans, rubbing his eyes to blink blearily up at Louis.

“Daddy?” he asks, quiet.

Louis smiles softly. “Hey, Spence. Aunt Gem’s having a baby, so we’re here to help her.”

Spencer yawns widely, scrubbing his cheeks some more and nods. “I stay.”

Snorting, Louis reminds him, “Can’t stay in the car by yourself, Spencer.”

As Spencer wakes, Louis takes the double pram from the back of the car, clicking all the parts into place for the setting with upper and lower carrycots so his children can face each other. He sets it by Olivia’s door, breaks on. Louis takes her out carefully, kissing her nose when she opens her eyes. She grabs onto his glasses, black frames gone from his face while he places her into the pram. He lets her play with them, tucking blankets around her legs and leaving her arms alone. Spencer climbs into his seat by himself, grabbing his octopus plush Octy thankfully from Louis.

By the time he gets them to the maternity ward, Spencer’s back asleep and Olivia is fussing, hungry. Louis left their bag of baby stuff in the car so he digs around in the under basket for a dummy to give to her to suck on. She takes it, mouth opening when he pushes it in gently.

Her dark eyes are wide, eyelashes dark, and Louis inhales the scent of her deeply.

“Lou!” Harry whispers from somewhere, harsh and almost a hiss.

Louis snaps his eyes up, searching for his husband, and feels a sort of relief when he spies his messy hair peeking out of a door. He can hear Gemma cursing from behind Harry and bites his lip to keep from laughing. As he pushes the pram closer he realises it isn’t going to fit in the door and feels really fucking dumb for not realising it earlier when they passed the other tens of hundreds on their way in and down this hall. Louis looks at Harry who seems to have just realised the same thing; Harry glances up at Louis and his eyes are so bright, gleaming with the white fluorescents, green irises, tanned skin, pink lips and tired smile. If they were younger Louis might say his expression was unreadable but as it is he knows Harry more than anyone else, recognises the nerves, excitement, terror and love all jammed together in a befuddling mix.

He’s so gorgeous it hurts Louis to keep looking; Louis blinks away from Harry’s gaze and when he lifts his eyelids in a startlingly young gesture, eyes like a blue moon, smile crooked, Harry’s expression is just one of pure affection.

Gemma’s room is a single, only for her and Kyle so far, though Robin is on his way. For the first hour after their arrival, they abandon the pram in the hallway, Spencer tucked into the spare bed and Liv content to be bounced on Louis’ knee. As the clock ticks over to six in the morning, the midwife starts checking in more frequently and Gemma starts crying, sweaty and frustrated, and Robin arrives and Gemma cries more. Her crying wakes Spencer up who murmurs sleepily and then Louis takes Olivia and Spence out into the hallway for a bit.

He can hear Gemma’s swearing even with the door closed.

Spencer’s ocean blue eyes go wide and his lip quivers. “Is that Aunty Gem?”

Olivia’s dummy falls onto the floor and Louis rubs his eyes with his free hand. “Could you grab that, Spence?”

He does, kicking his legs off the chair to pick it up and give it back to Olivia. Spencer shoves it in her mouth and she starts making the little sounds she does before she cries—it’s like she has to work herself up to it. Louis quickly removes the dummy, cringing when his mind does a quick run through of all the bacteria that could be on the floor and now in his daughter’s mouth. He frowns briefly at Spencer and starts bringing his leg up and down again, watching as the quick movements distract Olivia to the point where she lets her tongue push her bottom lip out, hands smacking on Louis’ arm.

Spencer’s still looking for an answer, repeating, “Daddy? Is it Aunty Gem? Daddy?”

Louis cracks his neck, rolling his head. “Yes, Spencer,” he says over a yawn, turning his gaze to his son. Spencer looks instantly frightened, eyes impossibly wider, and Louis realises his mistake right away. He hurries to continue, tightening his arm around Olivia. “No! No, Spence, Spenny, she’s fine, it’s okay. Aunt Gemma’s okay, she’s fine, babe. It just takes a lot to have a baby.”

At this, Spencer spreads his hands over his cheeks, mouth flopping open. “Baby? Like Oliva?”

He still hasn’t mastered her name which makes Louis laugh gently. “Yeah, Spence, like Olivia, but even _smaller_. Do you remember when you first saw Olivia?”

Spencer nods vigorously.

“ _That_ small,” Louis intones.

“Whoa,” Spencer marvels.

“Whoa,” Louis agrees.

Just then Harry bursts through the door at the same time Lottie bursts through the entrance to the ward, blond hair in a ponytail and makeup completely undone.

She demands, “I didn’t miss it, right?”

Louis opens his mouth, looking at his sister in such an unravelled state he hasn’t seen since he left home before she was into makeup, and Harry breaks in with, “She’s coming, Gem’s freaking, Kyle’s about to faint.”

“Yes!” Lottie crows, shrugging when Louis levels a look at her. “Brother, I’ve missed seeing a fresh newborn every time, okay, I’m fucking going in. Gemma said I could.”

She sounds slightly petulant and Louis, knowing the hospital has a three-person policy on who can be in the room while the baby’s coming, accepts his little sister’s words and stays seated. Harry looks over at Louis and raises his eyebrows; Louis smiles and thinks briefly about who’s being thrown out when Gemma and Kyle’s baby finally crowns.

Gemma cries, “Harry! Is he coming or what? Are you coming? Fucking... Kyle, where’s the—”

She breaks off to yowl, a sound that makes Louis’ entire body shudder and Olivia starts fretting, whining and struggling to breathe soundlessly in her diminutive cries. Harry and Lottie quickly disappear into the delivery room and unlike before, Louis can’t hear anything after the solid thunk of the door shutting.

Louis spends a few minutes calming Olivia, having to take a walk down the hallway to the lift to get the formula from the car. He lifts Spencer into the seat of the pram, Olivia whiffling gently. Spencer babbles random things that come into his head as Louis pushes them. Olivia starts giggling and Louis realises rather abruptly that in their haste to leave they left Spencer in his pajamas—pink and red little elephants on the soft, thick material. He loved them when they were out shopping before Christmas and Santa just happened to wrap them and place them under the tree. He’s worn them enough they have pale pink pills over the long-sleeved shirt.

His feet are in soft brown snow boots, the first shoes Louis could find, and he smiles when Louis asks if he’s cold. His teeth are chattering by the car, though, so Louis drags out the Big Bag Harry insisted on buying when they went looking for baby things for Olivia.

The Big Bag has just about everything. Nappies and wipes and powder, formula, blankets, bottles, spare clothes and even toys.

Louis digs through it, taking three blankets—one for Spence, one for Olivia and a spare—along with Olivia’s teether, a self-warming bottle, the milk formula and a few nappies. The essentials, really.

He wraps his children in their blankets and kisses each of them on the forehead, Spencer kissing Louis’ chin in defiance with a giggle and Olivia chewing happily on the watermelon-styled ring.

When the lift dings open again, Robin is seated in the waiting area with a sleeping Lottie, grin on his face as he greets Louis and his grandchildren. Louis’ face apparently says enough because Robin laughs and fills him in. “I asked how much labour pains hurt on a scale of one to Harry’s jokes and she kicked me out. Lottie had a laugh, though, and Gem booted her too.”

Louis laughs with father-in-law, chuckling, “Robin, I’m quite shocked Harry isn’t out here yet. Thought if she was kicking anyone out, it’d be him.”

Kyle steps out of the room, door opening to Gemma’s pained moan; his face is red and his hands are so flushed Louis’ a little concerned about his circulation. Kyle spots them and collapses in Louis’ arms, breathing quickly. Louis holds Kyle, for whatever reason he’s out here, and Harry yelps as the door closes.

“Louis,” he pants, “Louis you’re so bloody lucky Harry’s not a girl.”

Kyle goes back in and Louis realises that’s the second time he’s heard that today, even if one of those times was from his own mouth.

He and Harry were bickering about it in the car but that banter was mostly just to keep Louis awake and Harry distracted. Now that he has time to think about it, Louis wonders what it would really be like. Spencer with Harry’s green eyes and Louis’ teeth, Olivia’s smile an image of Louis’ and her eyebrows Harry’s low and arching ends; their children with follicles of Harry and Louis’ DNA, combinations of love, and Louis—

He’s glad Harry isn’t a girl because then their children wouldn’t be _theirs_. Their lives would be different and Spencer might have been named Gerald or Olivia might not have a family right now and that’s too much to consider. Olivia is Louis’ little girl and Spencer is his little boy and any differences to them, even tiny changes, would be earth-shattering.

Gemma’s a few metres away, giving birth to his _niece_ and her very own daughter, and Harry’s in there with her husband; they’re all supporting her, even Spencer staying awake out in the hall because he sleeps late and is clearly struggling to keep his eyes open. She kicked Robin out but he laughed it off because he loves her and knows she loves him, and Louis’ own sister is dozing in the waiting room. 

Louis’ snapped from his thoughts when Spencer climbs out of the stroller awkwardly and falls on the floor. He bends down to his knees quickly, pulling Spencer up to wipe him off and kiss his elbow better, hushing his huffy breaths with a quiet voice.

Everyone stops as suddenly there’s an awful, shockingly loud groan then absolute quiet. Spencer stamps over to Charlotte and tugs her awake. She blinks and in the second after a baby starts screaming.

Olivia drops her teething ring into her lap and the baby doesn’t stop screaming. Harry peeks his head out before stepping out completely, shutting the door and gushing, “She’s okay,” and doesn’t specify who he’s talking about. Louis assumes both of them and his entire body surges with happiness and relief. Robin makes a suspiciously wet sound and when Louis turns to him there are tears in his eyes, behind his glasses.

He croaks to Harry, “Gem’s okay? The baby—she’s good?”

Harry smiles at his father, so tired that under his eyes are beginning to look like bruises pressed there by someone’s hand, and answers, “Both good.”

Robin takes his son in his arms and Lottie’s crying freely, Spencer jumping on his toes at the action, curious and worried.

Louis scoops him up, telling him, “A few more minutes, Spencer, and you get to meet Aunt Gemma and Uncle Kyle’s baby.”

Spencer grins and nods, while Lottie wipes her face and takes Olivia from the pram.

Then Kyle steps out and he’s fucking crying too, and Louis can feel his own tears well up—his family are too emotional, fucking...—and they all crowd into the small room. The midwife Louis met before smiles warmly at them all as she backs out, reminding them Gemma will want to sleep soon so not to take too long.

The baby is curled against Gemma’s chest, partially cleaned and wrapped in a crinkling blanket, wispy strands of hair on her head, face as red as a cherry and wrinkly skin. She’s latched onto Gemma’s breast and Louis loses his breath as quickly as he ever had it. Spencer squirms until Louis puts him down and Harry sidles up to him, nosing behind his ear gently.

Gemma whispers something to Spencer they don’t hear and he reaches out and touches the baby’s head, feather-light. Kyle smooths a piece of hair back from Gemma’s forehead, sweat not bothering him in the slightest, and Spencer steps back into Louis’ legs, taking his hand.

Gemma tears her eyes away and smiles, exhausted but so, _so_ happy.

She announces softly, “Meet Marie Selley Valentine.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes kyle's last name is valentine, in case u didn't pick up on it, because i forgot to mention it anywhere. as far as i know, he's totally fake
> 
> also, lmao i know i used Louis' tweet for the watch inscription but it was too good to pass up; just had to acknowledge it in case someone figured i had the wrong info or something
> 
> love you dudes


	9. blink back to let me know

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> football, walking, a cliched barbecue and falling ill

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> school starts soon so these might get a little iffy in terms of updates, but im going to try and write as much as i can within the next few days and hopefully use time i waste to write for all your beautiful faces
> 
> title from 'always', panic! at the disco (blink back spence!!)

The first time all of them attend one of Louis’ coached football games where he plays kids against parents, it’s drizzling outside and Spencer doesn’t want to stay under the protected cover of the double pram.

Instead, he tumbles his way out of it, leaving poor Liv alone—well, she might care if she was awake but as soon as Harry clicks her into place, blankets tucked, dummy in (she won’t quit it) she falls asleep.

Spencer slips on the grass, doesn’t care and runs towards Louis. He yells, “Daddy! Daddy! It’s Spencer!”

Louis had no clue they were coming today, Harry having fibbed to him about working on his latest series at home with the kids, so when he turns around and sees them it’s fucking magical to see the expression on his face.

It starts confused, then surprised, excited, worried—complete wonderment and smile bright enough Harry’s positive the sun shines through. He’s far enough away through the weak drizzle that Harry can’t see his eyes, but he can see when he picks Spencer up and spins him, hearing Spencer’s squeals of laughter and Louis’, “It’s you, Spencer! What’re you doing here?”

Spencer quiets to answer him, Harry with Olivia approaching the benches while the rain seems to clear off. It leaves a slightly soggy ground and grey skies, Louis’ teeth white and grin broad at whatever Spencer tells him.

Harry spreads a towel over the lowest bench, next to Winoa. Winoa’s daughter plays football, her wife representing them on the adult team. He shuffles over for Spencer when the game begins, pushing the pram between the gap in benches after undoing Olivia and resting her up in his lap.

She stirs, pleasant and pliable as she blinks. Her brown eyes are getting lighter and lighter, likely going to settle into a warm olive. Winoa coos and Harry passes his daughter over with slight difficulty, but is overwhelmed by the want to share how brilliant she is with someone else.

Spencer gets right into the game, jumping on his seat when he can see Louis near them. He doesn’t understand what’s happening but he’s excited about all of it, cheering whenever anybody scores a goal.

In the end, the kids win and Louis high-fives them all, telling them what a great team they were. He takes one boy aside who was flouncing around for the last ten minutes after one of his other team members took the ball from his and scored a goal. Harry has to tend to Olivia who begins fussing in Winoa’s arms, wanting for some food. He hushes her _hungry_ huffs and watches as Spencer almost climbs into the wrong side of the pram.

Louis slides his cold hands around Harry’s waist, startling him over the sounds of parents greeting their partners, or congratulating their kid on the game. Louis licks Harry’s neck cheekily before drawing Harry around and kissing his mouth tenderly.

“Congratulations, Tomlinson, unbelievable game,” Harry remarks, mock serious.

“Ah,” Louis responds, “yes, indeed.”

Harry chuckles, “Quite. You’ll be in the Premier League in no time if you keep this up.”

Louis flicks his hair out of his face and rolls his eyes. “Thank you, though—for coming, Haz.”

With a shrug, Harry hands Olivia over to Louis and kisses his cheek. “Never mind that; I love you, Lou, ‘course we’d come. Waffles? Maybe it’ll wake Spencer up.”

***

The first time Olivia walks is enamoring, especially for Harry who missed Spencer’s being in a meeting with his publisher.

She’s thirteen months old, wearing a sweet lace [sundress](http://image.dhgate.com/albu_358159993_00-1.0x0/girls-baby-sweet-lace-sundress-new-summer.jpg) with chiffon fabric—a peach-coloured top, pale yellow skirt and white lace around her midsection to halfway down the skirt. There’s a matching yellow bow just above the skirt, another smaller bow in her hair. Yellow stockings adorn her legs, a soft layer of protection Harry swears she needs if she’s wearing a dress, disregarding the fact the dress itself covers her legs.

Olivia has been crawling all over the floorboards they used to try preventing her from going on; their preference for plush ground on her knees is defiantly ignored almost constantly. She’s tried standing up a few times, always wobbling before she can get all the way and tipping over. Anytime Spencer sees he either giggles or he gasps and rushes to help her. Only once has her attempts led to tears, when she crawled off the changing mat in the split moment Louis looked away for a nappy and she ended up flat on her bare bum, sobbing.

Harry had laughed so hard his abs got abs.

Today, however, is different. In her pretty dress and the sun swimming in through the windows, Olivia has been shuffling around all day. Sometimes she stops to roll over and kick her legs around, other times sitting up and then kicking her legs, frustrated.

Harry’s typing away on his laptop, working to finish the new book he’s spent a near year working on. Having the kids as well as moving has meant he hasn’t had a lot of time to create much beyond the basic storyline and character descriptions. However, after forcing himself to sit down and write anything at all, Harry's fingers have been itching whenever he lets his laptop rest.

It means he’s not really watching when Olivia grabs onto the end of the sofa, small fingers clutching at the fabric like a lifeline as she tries to wrench herself up. Spencer across the room encourages, “Go, Liv, go!” He abandons the set of dinosaur figurines he and Olivia received for Christmas, Harry’s head coming up to watch so quickly his neck twinges.

He catches her eyes a second before she looks back up at the sofa and when he raises his eyebrows, the expression on her face is more frustrated than the last time he stole a glance at her. Olivia glares at him and it reminds Harry so much of Louis his eyes snap open wide. “Louis Tomlinson! Olivia’s trying to walk! Get your arse down here!”

The sound of Louis scuttling down the stairs drifts in over the soft music from the hallway, his quiet swears as he presumably stubs his toe on something. Spencer and Olivia pay him no mind as he runs in, slipping on the hall runner and sliding in, landing with a soft thud on his bum. Harry snorts, waving him over with one hand while he whips out his phone with the other. Olivia glances over at them as Louis settles beside Harry but it appears they don’t satisfy her interests enough and she looks back to the floor.

Olivia makes another grumpy face, mini features crumpling with determination. She grabs onto the sofa and pulls herself up. Harry goes to stand to encourage her walking, breath hitched with excitement, but lets Louis pull on his hand as Spencer moves closer. He holds his arms out while he beams, “Here, Liv. To me!” She’s standing and she wobbles but Louis and Harry are clapping and wooing, and she toddles towards Spencer. Her skirt is rucked up on the side and Harry has a view of her chubby legs taking small, staggering steps. Olivia falls on top of her older brother and he squeals, surprised.

Harry laughs, giddy, as Louis says, softly, “Christ, Harry. She’s walking... ‘m feelin’ old.”

Harry pats Louis’ cheek, who says, “Do me a favour?”

Olivia’s bow comes askew and Spencer is petting her head like it’s going to help at all.

“Anything,” Harry drawls, a little absently.

“Kiss me,” he murmurs.

Harry turns his head and it is that easy to catch Louis’ mouth in a gentle kiss. Harry can’t help but think about all the years they’ve spent together, becoming _this._  Their separate lives and the one they share together, the memories they’ve made and the ones they will. The mistakes they made. Louis’ mouth is soft and familiar, a little chapped and when Harry moves his lips, kissing him properly, Louis’ hand comes to rest calloused and warm on his jaw.

Olivia starts huffing about trying to crawl off her brother, and Harry pulls away, smiling. Louis’ eyes crinkle and he presses a kiss over Harry’s eyebrow, smoothing his thumb over it a moment later. Louis puts his hand on Harry’s knee to push himself up. He groans like it takes effort and easily takes Olivia off Spencer. Louis holds her in front of his face, bouncing her and cooing how amazing she is.

Spencer loses interest, stumbling over to tug the sleeve of Harry’s sweater for him to get the fingerpaints.

By the end of the day, she can walk for a few seconds at a time, bumbling between Harry and Louis, and Spencer has three new additions to the art wall.

***

The first gathering they host is in April.

Olivia’s 2nd birthday is just around the corner and she’s walking very well, which is good for her development but not so great for Harry and Louis who have to follow her everywhere she goes to ensure she’s not doing anything dangerous.

With the expansive garden and the new grill itching to be used from Harry’s 30th alongside the apron he uses almost every night, it seems almost inevitable that Harry and Louis host a neighbourhood barbecue.

Spring means glimpses of blue skies, cool sunlight and a fresh breeze.

They invite everyone on their street, Harry baking in the kitchen while Louis and Spencer clean up. They section off the upstairs with a baby gate they take from the unused bathroom up there.

Louis fixes himself and Spencer some sandwiches, Harry denying Louis’ offer for one around a mouthful of cupcake. Olivia sits in her highchair for Louis to feed her a little after one in the afternoon, hair mussed from her nap. Having cried all morning from not sleeping last night, it’s not a surprise that her head tips and within minutes of being fed she’s making those little snuffly noises she always does.

Zayn and Liam arrive not long after that, foster daughter trailing behind them. At age 17, Astrid has apparently been dragged through the system more times than Liam and Zayn wanted to know. She’s been with them for two months now, though Harry and Louis have never met her. Zayn says Liam is being too careful around her but Liam protests that they have to be at least sort of cautious for Astrid to be able to hopefully feel comfortable. Zayn argues that if they tip-toe around her she won’t ever understand what it is to live with _them_ , truly.

The outcome: they’re trying to be themselves without pushing too much onto the girl. Louis understands it must be difficult—both for his friends and Astrid. Being shuttled around from home to home, family to family; some with children, some without, some looking for labourers or those just in it for the welfare they’ll receive. Louis cannot imagine how hard that was for her, and he’s just glad Astrid has Liam and Zayn now.

Of course, it is as much a new thing for her as it is them, so both are testing out the waters which is why Liam and Zayn travelled the half-hour to be here today.

Harry answers the door, throwing it open with a smile and a comment about how they need to air out the space a little. Louis rolls his eyes fondly, Olivia in his arms and Spencer by his feet as they move to say hello.

Harry hugs Zayn while Liam steps forward with a plate of some kind of food.

“Li, babe! I’d take your thing, but I don’t have any hands because of this sweet munchkin,” Louis smiles.

Liam scoffs, laughing, but the girl who must be Astrid steps out from behind Zayn and Harry’s embrace. She blinks, body language apprehensive, feet shuffling back a little so as not to impose. Her eyes are a dark grey, almost blue, hair tied in a bun dyed white with a blue section underneath. She’s wearing dark jeans Louis hasn’t seen since 2016, and a ratty sweater too large for her frame but draping almost stylishly. She brushes her bangs from her eyes. Louis stomach curls, wondering what she’s been through.

“Hi, love, I’m Louis Tomlinson,” he says, gently so as not to startle her. He props Olivia around so she’s facing the group. “The oaf who almost knocked you over grabbing Zayn is my husband Harry Tomlinson. This sleeping beauty is Olivia and this superhero is—”

Spencer claps his hands, bringing her eyes down to him. “I’m Spencer!”

Harry chokes on a laugh, coughing behind his hand before beaming brightly. “Harry. We’re excited to meet you, here, come in.”

Astrid’s eyes are wide, shocked and yet her smile is trying to be polite. Her mouth opens as if she has no idea what to say. If it were anyone else it might have become awkward but Olivia takes that split second to wake up and reach her fingers out. Astrid takes a step forward to come into their home. Louis doesn’t think to move back even though he probably should as Olivia tends to stretch her arms out upon waking. It is then that she latches onto the neckline of Astrid’s sweater, Louis moving instinctively closer to keep his daughter safely in his hold.

He tries to apologise but Astrid’s grey eyes have moved to the baby girl, features soft. She coos quietly and Louis looks at Liam hoping to communicate his next move, but Liam’s eyes are trained on Astrid light with something that might be hope.

So as not to disturb the scene, Louis slowly extends his arms towards Astrid whose arms go out to take Olivia automatically—she doesn’t look at him until the weight of Olivia registers and she flicks her eyes up, startled.

“Louis, Mr Tomlinson, I—” Astrid begins, starting to pass Olivia back.

“Louis,” he corrects cheerfully, hoping to keep the mood light, “and it’s quite all right. She’s been fed, napped, and will probably sleep for a while more. If you don’t want her, I can take her back. It’s just been a long day, you know?”

“No! No, I mean—sorry, Mr, uh, Louis. I can hold her,” Astrid answers, tone nervous as Olivia settles into the nook of her neck. Her cheeks are like strawberries and she seems so young.

Zayn and Liam are thankful, Louis can tell, as Liam leads Astrid into the house with Harry. Louis stays in the entrance to talk with Zayn for a little. Spencer runs to the living room after he’s hugged Uncle Zayn and Uncle Liam ruffled his hair. By the time Louis and Zayn start looking for their spouses, Spencer is proudly showing Astrid all his toys in the large chest in the living room. His son is rummaging through the chest to find his favourites, shoving them all at Astrid while he tells her what they do or what he does with them. Louis backs away, not disturbing them, and instead flits around tidying bits and pieces like removing Harry’s pool shorts hanging over the gate.

He waters their outdoor plants and mows the grass, coming inside sweaty, earthy and glowing golden under the hour in the sun (they have a lot of grass) (okay, maybe he's not the greatest with the mower, whatever).

Harry complains loudly when Louis drops into the kitchen to steal something before showering, bumping into Zayn who’s leaning against the doorway to the living area and smiling contentedly.

Liam had clearly taken it upon himself to clean further than Louis and Spencer’s half-hearted efforts because their house looks absolutely spotless. He’s wrestling with Spencer on the rug but the high-pitched giggles coming from Spencer make it obvious Liam is tickling him.

Around five, the guests begin pouring in.

A rough twenty or so people show up, kids in tow with platters of food and drinks to greet them alongside their smiles. Near every single person/family remarks how they’ve never had a neighbourhood barbecue.

Harry is the more gracious host of the two, except the four-hundred different, terrible jokes he tell that people laugh at—why, Louis isn’t sure. Every time, however, Harry sends Louis a smug glance and starts smirking when they move away from the door and into the part Zayn and Liam are helping run outside.

As soon as Loouis spots Olivia standing by the door to the patio, babbling at everyone in sight with squeals of glee, Harry's swooping her up in his arms and spinning her. He knocks over a vase that Louis manages to catch and Olivia giggles like she does each time this happens. Astrid stands close by, smiling. Later he catches Astrid and Harry talking, Harry in awe and Astrid’s hands clutching at the too-long sleeves of her sweater.

The night is a success.

Zayn and Liam stay overnight, sharing the guest room while Astrid has to stay on the pull out from the sofa. Everyone in the neighbourhood thinks the world of Harry and Louis; they get thank you casseroles, loafs, baked treats, and cakes to last for a month. Harry makes pancakes for breakfast and Spencer smears syrup all over his face. Astrid asks to feed Olivia while Zayn and Liam feed each other. Louis calls them insufferable then licks the juice from Harry’s lips and Liam groans.

Later, when they’ve left and Harry’s kisses taste like mint, Louis asks Harry what he was talking to Astrid about that made him look so astounded. Harry shakes his head, promising to tell Louis another time.

The last thing he hears before he falls asleep that night is Harry murmuring, “Ten years.”

***

The first time Olivia is sick, it’s mid-November and it's clear to Harry that she hates it. Her nose keeps running and she just lets it run despite the tissue Harry presses into her hand, opening her mouth to cry or voice her frustrations but she coughs or sneezes instead. Olivia says her belly hurts (touching it and crying harder) and when she finally stops crying she falls asleep, wheezing through her mouth because her nose is so blocked.

What she hates is that she’s too slow to play, to explore. Harry can see the look in her eyes when she clamours out of bed and makes it to the living room before slowing down, tired and dragged down by the cold. She glares at the ground then stares accusingly at him when he gets her attention. Harry, tissues everywhere, settles her in beside him on the sofa with a bottle of juice. He takes to reading or singing to her until her eyes droop. He puts on a movie and lets Olivia’s wheezing breaths lull him into a nap, tired out himself.

He wakes up, disoriented, with Olivia shaking his arm. Her skin is pale and sweaty, body overly warm, eyes sunken and small. She croaks, “Beh,” _bed_ so Harry hauls himself up, gathering her in his arms and making the long walk to her bedroom upstairs. It’s one he’s made countless times before but never one quite as long as this one seems.

Catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror at the end of the hallway, Harry notices his hair is messy and he is pallid, haggard, face pinched with the ache of exhaustion he feels. It’s a look matching Olivia’s and it means he’s sick too.

Her bed is tiny but he manages to fit them both on it, snuggling close to her, knees tucked and body pressed against the wall, arms tight around her. He wearily pulls a tissue out of his pocket for her to blow her nose on, a sneeze taking him off guard. Olivia giggles gently.

He kisses her nose and she sneezes right back at him.

When Louis comes home with Spencer, Harry and Olivia are tucked around each other like the thought of letting go would be painful. Spencer sneezes, once, twice, three times in a row and Louis sighs.

***

The first time Louis feels attracted to Harry’s fever, he’s taken off guard by it.

Both children are asleep, letting the day pass with their eyes closed, too tired from being ill to do much more. Harry’s in bed too, and Louis’ been trying to avoid spending too much time in either bedroom so that he stays un-sick, occasionally popping in to make sure they’re all still breathing.

It’s four in the afternoon but it feels later than that. Louis settles in to watch another game of football, contemplating the game consoles in the cabinets. The afternoon sunlight pours through the windows and there’s a glare on half of the television Louis tries his best to ignore. Instead, he focuses on shuffling down into the white cushions and closing his eyes. The warmth of the sun soaks into his bones through the layers of his skin and he drifts into his thoughts easily with every intention to nap like the rest of his family.

His head has just fallen to his shoulder when Harry moans, low but echoing in the quiet house.

Louis gets up without much fanfare, padding his way to their bedroom. He cracks the door open, fresh light flooding the darkened room, curtains pulled shut. He steps into the room and lets the darkness swallow him until slips of pale light sweep through the swaying curtains as he closes the door behind him.

Harry looks a right mess. He’s flushed, red high on his cheeks and sweat on his brow, curling the wet strands against his forehead and the ones at the base of his neck. The forest green duvet has been shoved down to the bottom of the bed, the off-white under sheet rumpled over the lower half of his body while the upper half gleans. Dark shadows between slices of smooth skin and his tattoos, old and new, still offering the same temptation to Louis’ teeth, his fingert8ips. His lips are swollen, rubbed red by each other and his tongue, teeth, hand—Louis doesn’t know.

Harry whines, curling over and into himself before he gasps for breath, eyes opening. Louis doesn’t know he’s moved forward but when Harry’s eyes—glassy, green, dazed—seek him out, he realises he must have, making some kind of noise. The light reflects off his eyes into Louis’ and Harry reaches out, panting. There is a lot of white, pupils blown, green almost gone when Harry’s hand finds Louis’ thigh. Almost instantly Harry’s hand curves around it, tugging Louis forward, and Louis goes without a fight.

He has to land on his hands and knees over Harry so he doesn’t suffocate him, but Harry’s knee comes up and grazes Louis’ crotch.

Harry’s skin is hot, eyes fever-bright, and he licks his lips—red, wet, like fresh wine stains.

Louis opens his mouth to say something and Harry groans, “Lou, Lou, I’m so cold.”

“Are you taking the piss?” Louis asks, cautious.

Harry shakes his head, a soft moan escaping. “I—Louis. _Louis_. You... It hurts.”

He leans down to kiss Harry’s sweaty forehead, tender, salt on his tongue when it swipes over his lips. Harry whines briefly and Louis nuzzles against his neck, breathing in quietly. “What do you want, angel?” he questions, voice gentle as though being any louder is a criminal offence. Harry’s knee shifts again, close to his bare chest, and Louis lets a soft breath of air escape him as he becomes inexplicably aroused.

Harry replies, voice pitched low, “You.”

And Louis—there’s a lot Louis has done in his life, a lot of things he’s felt and wanted to do, dumb questions he only had one way to find an answer to that usually involved mischief of some sort. Louis can say rather proudly that he’s glad his life is as it has been, but. He’s never once figured that he’d have his husband beneath him, sick as all hell, throat rasping and nose clogged, voice thick and near-burning skin from an unbroken fever, and he’d be thinking about licking into his germy mouth to share the same breaths and taste whatever is on his tongue (soup Louis almost burned making and definitely added too much salt to). At this point Louis’ positive Harry’s out of it, if his breathing pattern wasn’t enough to clue him in, and he’s almost positive he’ll contract the virus he’s been so careful to avoid.

A nonsensical stutter of memory, flashing to the three bottles of cold medicine on the kitchen counter and Louis asks himself if he’s sure he gave the right one to the right person, then Harry tries to rolls over. It means he ends up tucking his face in the gap between their pillows, sighing at the coolness he likely finds, and his head reaches forward until his nose is brushing against Louis’ wrist. Harry presses his nose into it, inhaling deeply as his body relaxes in the new position.

“You know I’ve got you, Harry. Always.”

Harry’s mouth parts slightly and he makes a weak noise right before he starts to snore.

Louis sets an alarm in Harry’s phone for an hour, then curls around behind him. He’s fully clothed and the room is too hot, Harry like a furnace, but he wraps an arm around Harry’s torso, hand curling loosely against his chest. He kisses the back of Harry’s neck softly and sleeps.

***

The first New Year Harry cries after the fireworks go off, he’s thinking about his mother.

Olivia is standing in the ‘v’ of Louis’ legs, he’s holding her hands and she’s in a coat coloured like a pumpkin, furred boots stamping on the picnic mat beneath them. She’s tripping over the words she knows, excited as everyone begins counting. Spencer, drifting to sleep in Harry’s lap, mumbles with as much enthusiasm as it appears he can muster into Harry’s sleeve.

_Five, four, three, two, one; Happy New Year!_

The fireworks light up the sky, Harry leans over to kiss Louis’ cold mouth chastely, grinning at his beaming husband while being careful not to jostle Spencer. He leans back, bending down to whisper, “Happy New Year, Spence.”

Spencer yawns, “H’py New Ear, papa.”

Harry blinks up at the sky and thinks _Happy New Year to everyone who didn’t make it._ His eyes water and blur the bright beginning of another year; Louis plonks Olivia on her bum, arm wrapped around her, and takes Harry’s hand. Harry smiles at him through his tears and can’t slow the quick beating in his chest from reaching his fingertips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ill be honest i listened to zayn's 'i wont mind' on repeat and thats where harry being feverish came from, if u can see the little slips of lyrics in there. and maybe 'michigan' by the milk carton kids.
> 
> also, anyone startled by the reappearance of a certain someone? who got that? like, i dont know that i would have, i just couldnt pass up the opportunity


	10. take a chance, take your shoes off (dance in the rain)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> roman beckett, LA, ballet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a little shorter bc the next next part is like 3k by itself :/ what can you do.
> 
> title from Panic at the Disco's 'I Have Friends In Holy Spaces', enjoy!

The first time one of Harry’s novels is proposed for adaptation into a film, it’s the latest novel he has out, released in mid-December 2023 so as to attract more sales with Christmas being so close. He’s quite a popular author, as the older generations slowly accept the fact that gender and sexuality are not ‘issues’ to be dealt with and realise that just because they haven’t heard of something doesn’t mean it isn’t real. There are still some protestors, people chained to their churches stuck in the old ways, when it was still okay to discriminate against others legally. Harry just tries to spread love, kindness, hence the fact five of his eight novels are centred around the theme of love. Two others involve aromantics so centring love would have been ridiculous, and the last—the third he released—is a faery who pines over his best friend who’s in a relationship with his other best friend, and eventually befriends a demon who has the ability to sex him up well enough that the faery forgets his friends for an hour at most. (The faery doesn’t end up in love with the demon, nor does he get over his friend—it’s more like a porn book than anything, keeping up with the recurring trends which sparked an interest in Harry several years ago.)

The point being: his latest novel is possibly the most boring yet simultaneously outrageous and it’s no surprise to anyone but Harry that he receives a phone call on the rainy day of the 18th of January, 2024.

Louis and Olivia were making cupcakes in the kitchen, Liv sat up on the bench with chocolate smeared over her face, Louis not much better with the spoon as he scoops the batter up.

Harry had been content to watch and the only clean one when the house phone rang. He hurries over to it, the number not recognised as he answers too cheerily, “Hi, Harry Tomlinson speaking.”

It’s a voice he used to use during his time at the bakery and the grocery shop when he was a teenager and hasn’t been able to shake when answering phones. Being an author doesn’t help with that.

There’s a cough, then, “Harry fucking Tomlinson. I’m going to hang up the phone and it’s going to ring again; it’s not me, remain composed, say yes. Love you, good luck.”

Before Harry can ask, “William? What the fuck?” his editor hangs up.

Harry stares at the phone for a moment—it rings again. He connects the call, distraught between asking William what his previous call had meant or answering the same as he had before. Luckily, the voice on the other end speaks first. “Hello, is this Harry Tomlinson?”

Thick American accent but deep, bordering on gravelly. The person’s tone is polite and confident.

Harry smiles briefly, then remembers himself. “Oh, sorry, hi. It’s Harry, yeah. Sorry. Erm. Yes?”

They laugh, greeting, “Harry, my name is Roman Beckett. I’m a producer, founder of _Hiraeth Studio_. We’ve done several films, but forget those unless you really want to hear them. We have an amazing team, incredible people let me tell you, they do brilliant work, great sound engineers. Several artists have already come forward with song lyrics for the background track. You get to choose a director but I do recommend Dante—he fell in love with it, so he’s excited to dig into the story and make it match the vision he’s probably already built. We have Patrick and Kate as heads of costume design, I don’t know you’ll need to consult much with them though my wife Rosa’s been fielding calls since we announced our interest from brands wanting a bit of rep. Fuck that, though, if you or Dante or Patrick or Kate have any explicit ideas, the brands can get fucked. Am I right?

“Right. Antonia does catering and...actually, Toni just organises everything if I’m honest, uh. Olivia, Dante and Ryan all will sit in for auditions for the roles. We won’t restrict you on anything, you can be on set the whole time if you want, and you’ll be there when we make final decisions. Of course, there will be things you won’t get your way on but that’s just the business. Courtney’s in charge of _you_ , actually, plus your family who are always welcome. You’ll be flying out here for a lot of it, sometimes we’ll come to you: it’s all going to be paid for, of course, the flight and accommodation—spending money is your own, however. That reminds me, Harry, for this to work we need to buy the—”

“Roman? Erm. Not to be rude but what...what is this for?”

Louis pokes his head around the corner.

Roman laughs boisterously. “William didn’t say? He told us he’d call to consult with you prior to us ringing? Well, Harry Styles, _Hiraeth Studio_ wants to adapt your novel ‘The Missing Bone’ into a film. How do you feel about that?”

Harry blinks at Louis’ retreating figure, Liv banging something. “Tomlinson,” he corrects idly, then blinks again, startled. “Did I hear that right?”

“Harry Tomlinson, apologies, your book takes everybody who reads it for a ride they had no clue they were embarking on,” Roman praises. “You’re fucking talented enough to do that, my team is fucking talented enough to make this one of the greatest films of the century. Hell, even the millennium. We want to work with you. What do you say? Look over the contract?”

The whole world becomes clipped moments, frozen. Louis’ laugh; Olivia’s answering cackle; Spencer’s absence; the neighbour mowing his lawn and the teenagers walking passed singing loudly, laughing, the car driving and Harry’s hand around the phone and Roman Beckett from _Hiraeth Studio_ breathing on the other end of the line.

“Fuck,” he offers. Roman laughs again and Harry admits, stunned, “I...that would be fucking ace.”

He doesn’t hear what Roman says next, just tells him to call Will with any details and arrangements then he’s hanging up the phone and tasting Louis’ chocolate-soft mouth, gloriously thrilled. He forgets salmonella and doesn’t know what’s ahead, the workload and papers and signing and money, forgets everything but _Hiraeth Studio_ and Louis’ tongue in his mouth.

Liv claps and it startles Louis back, Harry beaming ear-to-ear as he licks his lips. His husband leans on the counter, hand on Olivia’s thigh when he asks, “Harry? What was that for? Who was on the phone?”

Harry breathes out, “They’re making ‘Missing Bone’ into a film, Lou. A fucking film!”

***

The first person Harry calls after they get Olivia in bed for a nap and have celebratory sex is William Levitt.

William picks it up and answers, “Harry Tomlinson, holy Christ.”

Harry exclaims, “You arse! You were no help!”

Louis reminds him it’s Harry’s day to pick up Spencer by shoving a burned cupcake into his mouth and William’s grin is evident even when he doesn’t say anything at all.

So yes, the cupcakes burn but Spencer cares even less than Harry does. It just means Spencer can tell them about his day while they all hang around in the kitchen, making a variety of new cupcakes and letting Spencer and Olivia be in charge of decorating them. Spencer talks about Matt and Ariel and Izar, the games they played that day and how Raymond kissed Gabe on the cheek an' Ms Matthews was going to get mad, but Leigh told her she dared him to, which meant...

Harry tunes him out by accident, too caught up in thinking about what the future will hold for them, and tunes back into Louis kissing his jaw, making his way to Harry’s mouth.

Harry kisses him, happy, warm, loved. The kiss makes everything in his body move, dance to a beat unheard, butterflies at his fingertips and the world in his palm. Harry kisses Louis again, just because.

***

The first flight they catch to LA is the first time they leave the country as a family.

Olivia is the irritating child who cries as soon as she boards the plane, people glaring at Louis like he has some kind of magic potion to make her quiet. He glares back at them, feeling every bit weary as the parents in the films he used to laugh at, sharing the annoyance of other passengers at children wailing. Now he lets Olivia cry, puts in some earplugs and lets that be a lesson to anyone who thought his daughter might not sob when they saw her quivering face in the line before boarding.

The plane takes off, Spencer and Harry in the seats behind them. Spencer has been kicking Louis’ seat, talking Harry’s ear off about how excited he is to see movies, not having really understood the purpose yet. As soon as the plane starts shaking his legs stop and he gets quiet. Thank god for that, Louis thinks briefly.

Soon enough Spencer’s kicking returns, his voice growing more and more animated as he points out the window for Harry to look at things. It penetrates Louis’ cheap ear plugs just like Olivia’s cries have. He hears Harry give Spencer something and remembers the gum in his pocket to give to Olivia to help with the pressure built in her ears, but she yawns and everyone sighs. Then she makes more noise than ever and everyone sighs for a different reason.

Louis gives up trying to let her cry it off, taking out his ear plugs and stuffing them into a small plastic bag and shoving them in his pocket. He unbuckles her, shushing her cries gently while leaning in close to her. She refuses to quiet, red face reminding Louis so much of her as a baby nearly three years ago; wrapped in a blanket, pruny and miniature. She’s always been loud and a crier, the combination of which Harry and Louis have adapted to, meaning it must be a lot worse for everyone else.

It’s only been a few moments into his attempts when someone undoes their own seat belt and begins to walk down the aisle to him. Louis doesn’t really factor it in until the young person is right next to him, a baby in their arms. Louis looks up, Olivia’s tears wetting his shirt, cries muffled. The young person smiles.

“Hey, I’m Mikey. Wanna trade?”

Louis blinks. “Trade what?”

The stranger grins, holding the baby out in front of Louis. Louis looks at the baby, sound asleep, bundled in a blanket covered in dinosaurs and a dummy in their mouth.

Somebody says loudly a few seats back, “Mikes, come on, leave him alone. Not everyone wants to see how cute Imani is, let him be.”

Mikey turns, still grinning. “Shut up, Jack, he was super tempted.” Twisting back to Louis, Mikey's eyebrows are raised, holding the baby forward. “Imani is the sweetest little girl my trans-boy-body has ever birthed and will ever birth, and I want to trade you for your small girl. Me and Jack sing children quiet like magic. Swear I’m not scary, plus you’ll have my baby and I would never do bad things to children! Please? I’d be doing everyone a favour and myself a favour when I get to see her smile!”

Louis is totally compelled, turning back to Harry to ask with an eyebrow. Harry does the half-smirk, half sun-blinding smile, meaning _yes_.

Within moments of Imani settled into his arms, face soft and skin dark like ebony, the carriage fills with the sound of Olivia’s even louder cries after being taken from Louis, then a soothing voice accompanied by a lighter hum begins to make everyone drowsy. Apparently, Jack’s voice is heaven, pouring caramel into warm milk, silk sheets on smooth skin. Mikey’s voice is like a lullaby layered over the top, feather-light and dreamy.

Olivia quiets faster than she has _ever_ , leaving Louis stunned and in awe of these two stranger’s powers.

 

By the end of the flight, hours later stumbling off the plane into Los Angeles, Louis gets Mikey’s phone number. Two new friends, though more than ten years younger than him, and something they could have used years ago.

Spencer is hiked in Harry’s arms, sleepy from spending the whole flight awake, and Olivia is in the stroller from their gathered baggage, curious at the new surroundings.

The company has a car for them, the driver an elderly woman with a sharp grin and blue hair. She waits inside for them with a sign, then helps with luggage. Driving on the opposite side of the road, two car seats, Harry up front talking to the woman while Louis dozes in the back seat between his children. New accents and new people, sounds and sights so different yet similar in fragments.

Louis feels ashamed for thinking it, but he can’t wait to get home.

***

The first time Harry meets everyone Roman mentioned over the phone, messages and endless video calls, he’s alone. Louis opted to stay at the hotel with the kids while Harry changed into some fresh clothes for the weather and rode with the blue-haired lady. She tells him where everything is but that from that point he’ll be on his own with a company car which is already parked in the hotel’s assigned space.

Roman Beckett is...different. He’s young to have amassed a production company as he has, 32 with long fingers, a slender frame, brown hair down to his shoulders and a paisley headband pushing it back. His mouth seems small but his smile is wide, voice quiet when he isn’t putting effort into it like he was on the phone that day. He smells like cigarette smoke—like Louis sometimes does—and honey when he draws Harry into a hug, wearing tight dark jeans and a white shirt, top button undone and curling over his matching dark cream and red paisley scarf.

His wife, Rosa, has her hair in a bun, bangs hanging over her forehead, mouth pink and eyes golden brown. She hugs him warmly, smells the same as Roman with a lingering perfume, and Harry tries to listen when they drag him through to meet everybody.

He meets _everyone_ , from the cleaners to the sound engineers, struggling to keep up with Rosa and Roman’s fast pace. The people are each so different, each their own individual that Harry might not have met if Dante (slim, blond, chubby-cheeked and shy, totally not what Harry expected) hadn’t read ‘The Missing Bone’ and passed it onto Roman. Harry’s too aware of this while they drag him through the rooms, explaining their purpose, head getting dizzy as reality sets in.

Harry has to sit down afterward by the catering tables, the people apparently only here to meet Harry before they go home for the day.

Rosa smiles, patting his hand and snatching a croissant before fluttering off. Roman shrugs her off when her hand lingers at the base of his skull, then she is gone and he is sitting beside Harry.

“When do we meet the family?” he questions, tilting his head. “Seeing as you’ve now met mine.”

Harry quirks his lips up. “Soon, probably they’ll stop by tomorrow for lunch? I know Lou wants us to be proper tourists when we get time. Depends on Spencer and Olivia, if I’m honest.”

“Oh! Yeah, ‘course. We get it, it’s okay Harry. So. How’d you get the idea for ‘The Missing Bone’? Since reading it, I’ve got my hands on your other ones and it’s interesting to see the development in your writing style. Is that too pretentious to say?”

“No,” Harry laughs. “No, of course not. I’ve definitely changed since that first book. With ‘Missing Bone’ it was kind of a hard day. Louis and I had been arguing, something small I'm sure, and Olivia was crying, Spencer was shouting at the telly because it wouldn’t turn on and I just—I wanted to take out my heart and give it to them all, show them what they meant to me. And I thought, if I could, I would give every one of you a piece of me to keep. So I started running through ideas, removable body parts, swapping hearts, bones, brains, and if you could do that what’s to say there wouldn’t be thieves, stealing parts of you? From there, the idea was as easy as...slicing cheese.”

 

At the hotel, William knocks to let them know he’s there, kissing Spencer and Olivia good night before ducking into his own room down the hall.

Harry presses his mouth to Louis’ sleep-slack lips and falls asleep instantly.

***

The first time Olivia expresses interest in ballet, Louis’ snuggled up with her in the middle of the day. Spencer insisted on buying _Barbie and The Nutcracker_ when Harry was home for a few days and they went to some charity shops for a look around. Thankfully it was a DVD copy.

Spencer, however, is at preschool and after lunch Olivia says she wants to watch a movie. Louis pops it in because it’s right there and the sun coats him in warmth, making him sleepy as he presses play and props Olivia up with a boomerang pillow. The movie begins and as soon as the girl’s toes appear on the screen in pink ballet flats, Olivia sits up straighter. Barbie and the girl keep dancing and Olivia points.

“What dey doing?” she asks him.

“Dancing,” he says. “They’re doing ballet.”

She nods like she understands and repeats, “Ballet.”

Louis quirks his mouth into a smile. “Ballet. Why? Do you like it?”

The music plays on, the background music to this moment lilting and a little too loud; Louis looks for the remote to turn it down and almost misses when Olivia answers, “Yes! I like bally.”

He doesn’t think too much of it just then but later when he’s trying to sleep he pictures her older, spinning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> school starts tomorrow and i may try to be productive so this might get pushed back, likely not because i have a tendency to ignore school work (see: the shitload of stuff i didnt do for six weeks i might do today)
> 
> also!! Louis' son?? conchobar or jacob or sydney rain, i mean??/? 
> 
> thanks for reading x


	11. grows like fancy flowers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> school, peaches

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so i thought about this mb being a little insensitive considering the current drama w/ 1d, but also realised it will kind of always be insensitive now. sorry!! mostly tho, i figured ppl could use something sweet.
> 
> title from 'The Piano Knows Something I Don't Know' by Panic at the Disco (capitals? how weird)
> 
> the song harry sings is 'Island' by Young the Giant

The first time Spencer goes to school, Harry barely makes the flight home to see him. He drives his car too fast from the airport home, reaching their neighbourhood just as the clock turns to six am. He’s in the driveway at three past, struggling to pull all his bags inside and open the door. Louis opens it just as he gets his hand on the knob and he doesn’t look happy.

He doesn’t say anything to Harry, just scowls and takes his bags to dump them. There are bruises under Louis’ eyes from having to watch their kids alone for weeks at a time. Harry had assumed with recent advances in technology that he’d hardly have to be in America at all, however almost every time he schedules a brief trip he has to extend it as a result of Dante’s every expanding _vision_ changing things he didn’t agree too. The shy Dante he met has disintegrated into a man much more stubborn than Louis has ever been, and his last trip had lasted for almost two weeks.

Seeing Louis like this... Harry wonders where his mind has

Harry wonders where his mind has gone, as if he had misplaced it in LA and forgotten to bring it home with him on all those trips. He promises himself in the ghost of Louis’ tired eyes and messy hair that he’s never going to be gone for more than three days at a time.

The sound of his footsteps on the floorboards are echoing, so he kicks his shoes off and pads gently through the home they’ve lived in for two years. The picture frames on the walls, indoor plants and candles. Paintings on the art wall he doesn’t remember. Harry thinks the morning over. School begins at nine am in the local state school which means Harry has roughly two hours to sleep and twenty minutes to get everything ready if he wants to. His hair hangs greasy around his face and he thinks about showering, paused between the living room and the dining area.

He doesn’t sleep or shower. Instead, he heads straight for Louis in the bedroom. He trips over his own bags in the doorway but he doesn’t care, stumbling forward tiredly to get to the edge of the bed. Louis’ sitting propped against all their show pillows that have been piled on Harry’s side, as though he’s made himself a little cocoon of pillows in place of a person. He’s got a book in his hands, glasses on because he refuses to get surgery, the lamp glowing dimly from his bedside table. Harry doesn’t know how long he spent looking at the art wall if Louis has already managed to get settled.

Louis’ gaze breaks from his book to rest on Harry when he trips in, mouth quirking against all other emotions he must be feeling, and Harry thinks _thank god_. He kneels by Louis who’s face is growing a little more solemn, takes his hand and opens his mouth.

“ _Five days, underwater,_ ” he sings, low, rasping. “ _Near your island, off the coast, I know, five ways, you were my lover._ ”

Louis stares down at him, shifting his fingers in Harry’s grip. Harry feels warmth spread through him like tea on a cold day and he keeps singing. His voice is low and full, the words spilling out of him with purpose, as if the lyrics are inscribed on his tongue and he means them so truly. Harry wants Louis to know he’s sorry in a way that’s more significant than ‘I’m sorry’ and his chest rumbling, the breath in his lungs leaving him as quickly as it goes in while he sings to Louis—it’s almost enough.

“ _Oh, I thought you knew that I'd be coming; the way you move, a foreign groove, at night,_ ” and Louis’ eyes are crinkling, he’s so beautiful; blinded by love for Louis, Harry is willing to do anything for him. The wedding bands on their fingers clink, gleam in the warm, yellow light playing pretend as the sun rises behind the clouds already in the sky. “ _All the years I miss your warmth/Have you missed my warmth? On your island..._ ”

As soon as Harry croons the last words, Louis kisses him. Harry’s breathless, literally, but Louis kisses him tenderly, slow and soft in such a way that leaves him gasping for breath when they pull apart.

“I’m sorry.” Harry speaks quietly but with conviction. He looks directly into Louis’ beautiful, blue eyes and feels more like a cliché than he ever has—he’d rather be a cliché than a fool. “I... I’ve been terrible. I was so caught in the film that I fucked up with you and the kids. I’m...”

Louis snorts, threading a hand into Harry’s hair, end of his palm resting on Harry’s cheek. “They’re a right painful lot, angel.”

Whatever Harry is going to say disappears as he hears Louis call him angel, because then he’s just kissing Louis with all the conviction he had in his voice, telling him with a swipe of his tongue that he’s not doing it again, gentle grazing of teeth over Louis’ lip saying _sorry_.

Louis tugs through the oily, flat waves of Harry’s long hair and Harry hears _it’s not okay but it’s good enough_ ; Louis’ stubble scraping his cheek when they pull apart mumbling _i love you_.

The softness of Louis’ hands really clues Harry in to how worn-out he must be, as Louis near-always has a firm grip or a heavy weight—Harry’s more the one who ghosts his fingertips in swirls and invisible artworks over his husband’s skin. The kisses Louis is giving are sleepy, melting, and Harry tucks him back into bed, shutting off the lamp and promising with a whisper to wake him up when he needs to be.

Spencer is not the happiest after being woken. Normally a late sleeper, he yawns and staggers his way to the shower with Harry, barely feeling the water on his skin and Harry’s hands in his hair. Going along with the motions, Spencer doesn’t realise what day it is until there’s a spoonful of cereal in his mouth and he scrubs at his eyes. In only a bathrobe, he’s not yet dressed in the school clothes laid out on his dresser, but he looks up at his dad a little blurrily and asks why he’s awake, then where daddy is.

There’s a twinge in Harry’s gut and he recognises it as guilt, that Spencer assumes Louis will be awake and not him. “You have school today, lovely.”

His eyes get wide instantly and his lips wobbles, milk spilling over, and Harry’s throat feels tight. Spencer shakes his head, fat tears finding their way down his face and into his cereal bowl. Harry moves closer to him, sitting down with Spencer’s glass of pomegranate and cranberry juice. Spencer throws the spoon down and climbs into Harry’s lap as soon as he can—his head still shakes in the crook of Harry’s neck, tears soaking into the worn jumper he’s wearing.

“Spencer, it’s okay,” he says, soothingly. “School is brilliant! You’ve been there before, remember? And daddy said you’ve been practicing, and you know it’s just like preschool but bigger. You can do so many things there, like reading and art! I already saw your pictures on the art wall and they’re beautiful, Spencer—you’re really good.” Harry whispers it as if this is a massive secret when in fact Louis has been bragging to everyone they know about Spencer’s development, his artworks and attempts at writing all over Louis’ social media.

Spencer sniffles, leaning back. His lip still wobbles and his eyes are red—Harry blows softly and he giggles abruptly at the sensation, squirming. It’s so adorable that Harry beams which in turn causes Spencer to smile back with trepidation, testing it out like this is his very first smile.

“Look at that,” Harry drawls, grinning, “a smile. I’d have never thought.”

Spencer huffs and rolls his eyes, a habit he picked up from Louis, and smiles brighter. His hands clutch at Harry’s jumper.

“Okay, papa,” he announces, “I’m strong. I can go to school.”

Harry laughs. “I always knew you were strong, sweetheart, of course you can go to school. I think you’re being really cool about school.”

Spencer climbs off Harry’s lap and squares his shoulders, scrubbing shortly at his face to diminish the tear tracks like dynamite on train tracks, years and years ago. This boy curls his hands and his eyes are so bright when he looks up at his father, bright enough that the sun freezes for a moment and wonders if it’s been replaced by magic. His hair is half-dried, a golden blond mop covering his forehead and curving at the ends. Spencer looks like a five-year-old and Harry couldn’t be prouder.

Spencer says, firmly, “I love you.”

And Harry—everything in his body is a few pounds lighter, the guilt lifting as he answers, “I love you, too.”

They finish breakfast, Spencer having a banana rather than finishing his tear-spoiled cereal, and Harry lets Spencer jump into Olivia’s room, peppering her face with so many kisses to wake her up. When she makes a sleepy noise, Spencer shouts, “No sleeping, Olivia! I have school!”

Olivia starts, jolting awake with her eyes wide. Her jaw is quivering and Harry wonders if his children are normal or if they cry so much more than others. Whatever. They’re his little cry babies.

The moment Olivia sees Harry her jaw stills and she climbs quickly to her feet on top of her mattress, jumping and squealing. “Papa! Papa! You home!”

Spencer rolls his eyes again as Harry reaches out for Olivia who leaps into his arms. There’s a split second when she’s in the air that Harry can see everything bad that could happen, but then she fits firmly in his hands and he throws her up, catching her again and she squeals again, delighted.

“Papa? School?” Spencer reminds, voice a little petulant.

Harry grins. “Is someone jealous?”

Despite his pout and shaking head, Olivia imitates, “Jell-us!”

“Nuh-uh!” Spencer protests, a beat too late when Harry’s setting Olivia on her bed and already reaching for Spencer. Spencer attempts to squirm away, shouting, “No! No, papa, I’m not—” but Harry lifts him gracefully and throws him up. Spencer shrieks and Harry laughs, throat constricting because he can’t believe he left them for so long. He catches Spencer and does it again, Spencer shaking with laughter and Olivia clapping her approval from the bed.

Breathing hard, Spencer plants his feet on the ground, a little wobbly when Harry lets go, and Olivia says, “Papa...again!” Spencer cheers.

Harry shakes his head, tucking his bottom lip between his teeth to keep from saying yes or laughing and encouraging them. “No, come on, you have to get breakfast Liv and Spencer has to get into his school clothes.”

A glance at the watch on his wrist tells him it’s ten to eight.

Before he can go anywhere, Olivia says, “Monin’ daddy!”

Louis stands in the doorway, hair dripping and smiling fondly. He’s wearing a proper shirt with a grey, tight-fitting sweater over the top, sleeves rolled his elbows, towel around his neck. Like this Harry can see his latest haircut, long enough he’s able to slick it back, sides slightly shorter so the longer section acts almost like bangs. His hair looks darker than ever and his face is unshaven, clean stubble along his jaw and above his lip. A dark blue pair of jeans curve around his legs, folded at the bottom—Harry bites his lip because Louis’ never really managed to find jeans he doesn’t have to fold.

Louis frowns, seeing the lip bite, and reaches out to flick Harry’s ear.

“Oi,” he says, grinning.

Louis pats him on the bum, distracting, mumbling close to his ear, “What’s that? I couldn’t hear you,” because then he shakes his head and water comes flying everywhere, splattering all over Harry’s face and spreading through the room. Spencer squeaks when some of it hits him. Harry wipes his face then shoves his wet hand into the front of Louis’ shirt, tripping back onto Olivia’s bed when Louis shouts, “Ah! Harry!” and tries to rub his hair into Harry’s neck. Olivia giggles and takes all the mischief to mean she can jump on her bed again.

Louis kisses him briefly and then pushes him to their room—Harry showers (with a shower cap), covering his bruised under-eyes with concealer and using dry shampoo in his hair only to shove it into a bun. Harry dresses for the rain beginning to fall outside, a soft wheat coloured sweater and black jeans with his beloved mustard brown boots. Louis makes a face when he steps into the kitchen, brushing his teeth, but doesn’t say anything about the worn material. While Harry cleans his teeth, hanging around the kitchen where he can see Spencer kicking the heels of his new shoes together on the sofa in the living room and Olivia spilling the last of her beans over her pajamas, Louis heads off to do his hair. Harry uses the downstairs bathroom to spit and rinse his mouth out, then cleans Olivia up and dresses her.

He tries to get her in leggings and boots but she kicks her legs and refuses to wear them, instead pulling out the pieces to her tutu dress. Harry tells her no and she almost starts crying, so he relents but tells her it’s her fault if she gets cold. So, the dark blue tutu goes on with the matching long sleeve, skirt shimmery and both bedazzled with rhinestones. The bow on the skirt is a matching navy and Harry scrimmages for her pink cardigan with chiffon trimmings and a chiffon rose over her breastbone to match with the lacy pink band around her waist.

Olivia spins, smiling, pale cheeks flushing sweetly. Harry pulls her dark hair into a loose bun, brushing her bangs to the side and helping her clean her teeth. He calls Spencer into the bathroom so both children are brushing together, the noise of the hairdryer a hum in the background.

By the time pictures are taken and everyone is ready to go, they’ve only 15 minutes to get to the school. Harry barely manages to grab his long black coat as Louis pushes him out the door—and Olivia’s, because there’s no way he’d let her go cold even if she wanted to.

Spencer chatters the whole way there, nerves practically dissolved as he tells them he hopes Izar and Ariel are in his class. Olivia tries to talk over him, voice squeaking at points, but Louis reminds her that you don’t speak while other people are talking and she pouts in her seat.

Harry mentions he put some carrot sticks in for Spencer and someone else if he wants to share, and Louis makes an aborted motion like he’s going to protest when Harry rests a hand on his thigh, squeezing and smiling. Louis scoffs but lets Harry’s hand stay, asking Spencer what he’s most excited about.

They get to the school in ten minutes with four to spare, all of which are spent with Olivia running away from Harry, giggling, and then stamping her feet in the puddles. Her navy stockings get wet but she doesn’t care. Louis talks to Margo, a woman whose eldest son is on one of Louis’ football teams and a younger son starting school as well, Spencer gripping his hand. Harry catches Olivia and one of Izar’s father’s shakes Harry’s hand in greeting, Izar running over to Spencer. He picks Olivia up and inquires where his partners are, and Thomas nods his head to a bunch of parents huddled around the pair, cooing at their newborns.

A voice comes through the loudspeaker, startling everyone, and there is a woman in a suit standing in front of everyone. The crowd hushes, children moving to stand right by their parents. She smiles. “Good morning, parents, caregivers and friends. Some of you have already been through this process with your other children, and for some of you this is completely new. What we’ll do is let you know which classes you children are in, you can walk around and talk to their teacher if you haven’t already, and then it’ll be time for you to go.”

Olivia looks on with interest, head turning to stay with the woman when Harry excuses himself to head back to Louis and Spencer. He bumps his hip against Louis’ and Louis bumps him back, kissing the spot beneath his jaw softly.

“Oh!” the woman says, beginning to laugh warmly. “I’m Miss Dwyer. As principal, I’m here to ensure the transition from preschool to primary is as smooth as possible. All we want is your children’s happiness.”

Dwyer introduces the two first year teachers, an older woman named Mrs Brown and a man probably fresh out of school named Mr Harris. Each teacher then reads out the list of names of children in their classes respectively, Spencer getting more and more jittery with every name not his. Mrs Brown goes through the ‘T’s with no mention of Tomlinson and Harry starts eyeing the young man.

Izar gets called out for Mrs Brown and Spencer looks over at him, confused when he walks past him. He looks to Harry for help and Harry bends down with Olivia, whispering, “He’s not in the same class as you, Spencer.”

Spencer stamps his foot once, scowling, and Harry quickly rectifies the situation with, “Ariel’s in your class, though, S.”

His scowl shifts possibly even more sourly than his first bite of lemon. Harry doesn’t have to ask what’s wrong because Spencer says crossly, “Izar’s _alone_.”

Louis bends down now and it’s like they’re having a little family meeting. He murmurs, “Spencer, it just means Izar’s going to make new friends in his class. It’s okay, look, he’s not upset.”

And yes, Izar is smiling awkwardly at another kid, pigtails in their hair and skin darker than his own. The kid with pigtails sticks out their hand and Izar takes it, smile becoming more genuine—Harry sneaks a glance over at his parents and sees Tyler and Thomas each with a baby in their arms, Ryla between them, arms around her partners’ waists. They’re all smiling.

Soon Spencer is called and he goes without fuss to Mr Harris’ line, giving the man a fist bump when he holds his larger hand up for one with a grin.

Louis knocks his hand with Harry’s and they watch Spencer’s scowl lift.

Tightening her clutch in Harry’s coat collar, Olivia asks loudly, “Where Spen go?”

The parents near them laugh while Louis explains, then they’re being guided in different directions by each teacher to their classrooms. Harry waves to Ryla and he and Louis both say goodbye to Margo as she heads towards Mrs Brown’s room.

Olivia gets put down when they enter the classroom. The carpet is a royal blue, the chairs are a dirty turquoise shade, the tabletops a shade paler. The tables seat two people each and are positioned around the room in groups of three, colouring pencils in the middle on top of stacks of paper. There’re rows for backpacks to be hung up on one side of the room and on the other there are pigeon holes with all the children’s names on the boxes. In one corner there’s Mr Harris’ desk and next to it is a plush chair, bean bags piled beside it. A thick collection of thin books lines the top of the pigeon holed cabinet. In another corner there’s a little technology-based nook and right by the entrance there’s a blue tiled area with art smocks and paint set up.

Harry looks to Louis, impressed, and Louis raises an eyebrow, smirking. He takes Louis’ hand, linking their fingers, and watches Olivia find Spencer immediately. She grabs at his hand and tugs him around the room, Ariel on Spencer’s other side as they explore. Mr Harris is talking to a group so Harry drags Louis over.

Harris is in the middle of explaining the layout. “—as well as introducing them to slightly more complex systems than an iPad, because it’s very likely they’ve mastered those already. You might have noticed we don’t have a ‘bad child chair’ or something like that. In past years other classes have had disciplinary areas but I believe those things just enforce negative behaviour and attitudes. That’s not to say I won’t discipline your kid if they’re disruptive—if I’m honest, I think I’m more likely to act quickly so they know acting out isn’t funny before they get too settled into that behaviour. Any questions?”

About ten start talking at once and they all laugh when one dad makes a joke about how they need to start raising their hands. Harris grins and tells them an anecdote of his uni days, proving to Harry that he must not be long out.

Before long it’s time for everyone to go and there are a lot of tears from children and parents alike.

Louis doesn’t want to cry so he kisses Spencer’s forehead, smoothing a hand through his hair dampened by the rain, and whispers, “I love you so much, Spencer.” Spencer beams, teeth on display and replies with, “I love you too, daddy.”

Harry gets on his knees and catches Spencer in a massive hug, Olivia talking to Louis about the things she saw. Spencer wraps his arms around Harry’s neck and Harry’s so tired but he would never miss this moment. He lets a tear slip out because Spencer’s in school and this is a cycle that will continue for _thirteen years_ and wow, okay, he wasn’t prepared for that to come so quickly. Spencer pulls back, eyes a little wet when he says, “Okay. Leave now.”

It makes Harry laugh and he kisses Spencer through his hair. He stands and it’s one of the hardest things to turn around towards the door. Louis grips his hand, Olivia peering over his shoulder to wave at Spencer rapidly. Just before they walk out Louis spins around and calls out, “Spencer!”

He looks up and Louis grins. “Be good, Spencer! We love you!”

Spencer doesn’t stop beaming.

***

The first cat they ever get is a white and brown munchkin kitten they adopt off the side of the road. Technically, Louis’ coming home from training and stops by the green grocer to pick up some organic fruit and vegetables for Harry’s 32nd birthday breakfast the next day. He doesn’t notice the kitten when going in but when he comes out with a bunch of bananas, kale, peaches (more for Spencer, who can’t get enough of them), carrots, lettuce, etc. He hears the tiniest meow from his left. He turns and a little down the pavement is a box with one little kitten inside. Without thinking he steps closer, taking in the baby cat—it has mostly white fur with patches of warm brown, almost red, one patch directly over its right ear, one spread over its nose and another at the end of its tail.

It’s eyes are like a tortoise shell, huge pupil, wide and it looks up at Louis and—okay, Louis doesn’t want to belittle his daughter’s birth but in the fraction of a second after this tiny being look at him he can’t see himself leaving without it, and it’s a really similar feeling to when they didn’t know if Olivia was theirs or not, but they _knew_.

“She’s cute, aye? A munchkin ‘n Scottish fold mix, unique bi-colour,” a rasping voice claims; Louis looks up and sees an old man in a thick jumper and grey hair, a scar on the side of his red, veined nose. He grins haphazardly at Louis and lifts her out of the box. Louis almost fucking drops his groceries in his haste to take her but he remembers to set them down carefully and then she’s sitting in his palms, purring and _tiny_...

Fuck.

So he takes her to the shops to buy a litter box and cat food, hiding her in his hoodie. He takes her home and presents her as a surprise and Olivia squeals her delight, clapping. Harry looks up from his laptop and grins so widely Louis wonders if it’ll do anything permanent to his face, and Spencer opens his mouth and says, “Can we call it Peaches?”

Spencer’s hands are sticky with juice from the peach in his hands and he smiles at Louis through a mouth of the fruit—Louis doesn’t have to wonder where the name came from.

Harry tilts his head and looks at her pretty eyes, testing it out. “Peaches?”

She blinks, eyes fully open and pupils dilating with fear or nerves, likely, from Louis’ hands. Louis holds her up to his face and pouts, fluttering his eyelashes. He lets go of the pout quickly, grinning sharp, teeth digging into his bottom lip. “Early birthday present?”

There isn’t any way Harry can refuse.

 

It takes her two weeks to learn what the litter box is for and less than a day for Harry to fall in love with her. Peaches is small in every way, a kitten, yes, but a munchkin kitten with short legs and an almost stumpy tail and Louis starts complaining that Harry loves her more than his husband. Olivia chases Peaches, trying to hold her, until Louis tells her she’s just scaring Peaches and that isn’t how to get her to come. So Olivia sits down heavily, sighing and huffing as though it’s taken a lot out of her, and waits. Within minutes (of Harry dropping Peaches outside the main hallway door) Peaches stumbles down the hall and into Olivia’s crossed lap.

Spencer isn’t much interested in her, after, but once Louis finds them napping together after school and takes roughly nine million pictures.

Harry, ever ready to learn, buys a book about cat behaviours. It goes onto the shelf with their baby/toddler books, the first aid book, the knitting/crocheting books and the book about space that makes Spencer’s eyes full of stars. He teaches brief lessons over dinner of how to approach Peaches and how to get her to approach you, what she might not like, how to communicate, etc.

(Once Louis finds Spencer blinking slowly right at Peaches and she blinks back and he fist pumps the air, startling her.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so....tell me what you think??/ please?
> 
> also zayn's pillowtalk with 1d's history got me a mess; zayn and gigi look so good, and one direction with their dumb flashbacks and fuckn sweet outfits in the video?? how


	12. all was golden in the sky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> their careers, mostly, but brief other moments

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my sister told me i posted far too quickly and i was like lmao i know, but here i am anyway. i really have to work harder at writing tho bc i've only got two firsts after this and then stuff i havent touched, so!! i'll try, it's almost the weekend. 
> 
> title from "When the Day Met the Night" by Panic at the Disco!!

The first time they have to leave Peaches is for the very first movie premiere of ‘The Missing Bone’. On the way to a big airport the Tomlinson’s stop at Liam and Zayn’s house, Astrid in the kitchen counter in her sleep clothes despite it being just after midday. She smiles, still a little unsure of them but nowhere near as much as when they first met her, hugging Harry then Olivia in greeting and laughing when Spencer struggles away from her hold.

They stay shortly for a cup of tea, the only time they can afford to use, and Harry talks to Astrid about what she’s interested in doing after school. _Music_ , she says.

Liam won’t quit holding a sleeping Peaches but Zayn hugs each of them twice goodbye to make up for it, brushing a kiss against Louis’ jaw, warm and familiar. He does the same with Harry but he mumbles something that makes Harry shrug and then smile, darting a glance at Louis as he does so.

Louis pesters Harry about it for the next twenty minutes, as is his right as husband, but Harry starts telling knock-knock jokes and Louis groans, slapping a hand over his mouth. Harry just licks in these quick little darts at Louis’ palm and Louis jerks every time, so he pulls his hand away but turns up the radio so he doesn’t have to hear Harry.

Harry snorts but the radio is announcing coming films and all of a sudden it’s a little harder to focus on the road when he hears, “A _Hiraeth Studio_ production, ‘The Missing Bone’ is based on world-famous author Harry Tomlinson’s novel of the same title. Featuring...”

Louis smooths his hand over Harry’s thigh and grins so hard it hurts. Spencer kicks the back of Louis’ seat once and asks, “Did they just say your name, papa?”

Turning around in his seat, Louis begins to answer, “First, don’t kick daddy’s seat please.” Spencer laughs, cheeks pushing up when he does it once more. Louis pretends he’s upset, giving Spencer puppy dog eyes and pouting his bottom lip out excessively. The boy laughs again and pats Louis’ cheek, making him laugh before moving his head lightening fast to lick a stripe across his fingers. The scream Spencer lets out in response is enough to make Harry turn down the volume of the radio, forgetting to listen about his film, and he fluffs Louis’ hair.

Louis pulls back and Olivia starts kicking Harry’s seat too, and her legs are small enough they wouldn’t reach, except Harry is a mammoth and his legs are so long he has to push the seat back and it means he gets little jolts every time her feet make contact.

After realising what’s happening, Louis smirks at Harry and Harry rolls his eyes, two hands on the steering wheel even though he’s got one of the latest models of some car that can drive itself. Only a few minutes pass before Louis ends up reaching over the centre console to lick at Harry’s neck, cheeky smirk resuming its position when Harry swerves a little.

It tastes like Harry’s new cucumber and melon body wash, the one he paid far too much money for but he claims it does wonders for his skin. He even got Louis a mandarin and basil scented one, but Louis isn’t too keen on the citrus so Harry gave it to Gemma when they visited her, Kyle and Marie last. _Then_ after coaching a few days on, Louis came home, headed to the shower, and Harry fucking _flung_ a cylindrical bottle at him which Louis only _just_ caught and Harry said, “Juniper and rum! It’s rich and warm and for your body and soul!” and then disappeared. And, okay, it was pretty good because count on Harry to get expensive shower gels that Louis either hates or loves.

Louis wrinkles his nose and takes a swig from the water bottle between them, swallowing the taste. Olivia tires of kicking Harry’s seat and starts to sing along with the radio.

 

The night of the premiere, Harry wears a pair of skin-tight black jeans, insisting they’re ‘trendy’, his black suede boots with the slight heel, a black silk woman’s blouse he splurged on from fucking _Yves Saint Laurent_ which is dotted with tiny sparse stars, and a blazer. Louis takes the more traditional approach, navy suit and crisp white shirt, flower on his collar and brown shining brogues.

Spencer is content to let them dress him as a mix of Harry and Louis, a shade darker navy blazer with dark blue trousers and a soft white dress shirt, flower quite large on his collar but little brown shoes adorable. He flops on the bed when he’s done, playing with Louis’ sunglasses while Louis does his hair and Harry dresses Olivia.

Olivia, ever the defiant, refused to wear the dress they shopped for with this purpose in mind, and made them pack the dress she got for her birthday—black English lace—to wear with black velvet ballerinas and a mustard duffle coat she got earlier in the week at a high end children’s shop.

Louis has never wondered why his family dress the way they do so much as he does right before they leave. So much money and these are the things they spend it on. At least he knows he looks good.

It’s only five pm but they’re meeting up with Roman and crew for a few drinks beforehand to celebrate, then Roman, Rosa, Dante and Patrick (who’ve begun dating) and the Tomlinson’s are going together in a limousine.

The drinks go by quickly because soon enough Olivia’s clutching at Harry’s hand so tightly it’s as if she’s going to tear it off, and Spencer is beaming widely, waving at everyone they pass.

The red carpet is alarming. Though they aren’t so much celebrities and do not have to face much scrutiny from the paparazzi, and less photographs and altogether less mayhem in general, it doesn’t mean there aren’t a hundred photographers snapping away, journalists asking about the book or the film, Harry can’t really tell. Rosa walks behind them, Roman in front, ushering them through smoothly, Dante and Patrick lingering behind as Dante attempts to answer as many questions as he can.

Roman told Harry on the drive that he doesn’t have to say anything on the initial walk because there are journalists being paid inside that he’ll have to talk to, and afterwards they can just slip out the back. Roman mentioned that he’d have to leave them inside to talk to a few people outside then await the arrival of all the famous people.

A kind, red-haired man gives them passes, then the interviews waste what feels like hours but is only half of one, Olivia and Spencer being cooed over by the actors, binary and non-binary alike. And suddenly Louis’ holding his hand over their children’s laps and Olivia is swinging her legs, wide eyes staring up at the shy, blonde Dante she met who is now neither of those things, copper hair and social anxiety gone as he speaks passionately about the past year.

Harry listens intently, laughing where he’s supposed to and bashful, even now, when Dante says he could never have had the idea without Harry Tomlinson. Louis squeezes his hand—everyone claps and Dante introduces the main cast, everyone clapping again, and takes his seat three down.

The cast talk about their experiences and of Dante as if he’s some dream they imagined, their entire row making more noise than necessary as they commend him. Daniel Fahkir is the nineteen year old boy with dark hair and deep gold eyes who plays the protagonist, Michael, and he gives a smile to the audience in their seats. Daniel is the kind of boy who kisses his friends goodnight and loves soft blankets, such a difference to his role as Michael, and it’s weird for Harry to sit here and look up at him; to see the boy beneath the character.

Daniel Fahkir introduces the plot—a word for word on the blurb on Harry’s book.

“One day, Michael wakes up and he’s missing a rib. The days go by, more of his bones going missing and he makes the news headlines as the first one this strange occurrence has happened to. His best friend Fletcher is the second. It takes Michael two months to realise their hearts have been swapped and he finds he doesn’t want to give it back. Fletcher kisses him, switches their eyes one evening to show Michael the world as he sees it, takes Michael’s hands and puts them back on the wrong wrists. Michael’s been in love with Fletcher since they were children and now he isn’t sure if Fletcher feels the same or if it’s just his own heart. Everything becomes a whirlwind.”

Caden Vassallo, the boy who plays Fletcher, has stretchers in his ears and his hair coloured a deep burgundy as opposed to the ice-blond it was dyed for the film. He grins and his lip ring curves around the fullness of his bottom lip, and Daniel Fahkir takes his hand.

Linking their fingers, Daniel bows and Caden follows. People clap.

They might not be the pair Harry had in mind whilst writing ‘The Missing Bone’, nor do they replace the characters Harry wrote, imagined, but these boys are their own versions of Michael and Fletcher and that’s as much as Harry needs. He’s seen the film during production and cast Caden and Daniel so long ago; he’s watched Caden’s absolute dedication, submersion into Fletcher, and Daniel’s mini tantrums about the lack of vegan options for lunch on Caden’s behalf. Harry talked to them each in depth about the people he made, the things they’d break for, things they’d kill for, and stood back to watch them develop.

Louis slips his hand from Harry’s grip, moving it around the seats so his fingers brush Harry’s neck, Harry shivering when Louis starts playing with the curls there. He moves his head slightly and Louis’ smiling at him, crinkled skin and pointy vampire teeth exposed, digging into his bottom lip. Harry smiles back and Louis’ grin quirks, looking well-rested despite their busy week and Harry thinks, _I love him so much_.

Daniel flits his fingers, fluttering them in a wave as he curves his body around Caden’s, preparing to nudge him off the stage.

“Enjoy the film,” Caden smirks.

 

Harry doesn’t have to but he attends two more, one in Australia that leaves him exhausted and in love with the country but wishing his family had come, and the last in London, relieved to be so close to home and having to do his makeup before the event the colour under his eyes was so bruised.

When he gets home, almost two hours after midnight, Louis catches his mouth in a gentle kiss and pulls him into bed. Louis straddles Harry’s thighs and wraps a hand around him, Harry’s eyes drawn to the tattoos, tan skin and tendons, blue veins and yellow polish on his short fingernails. He comes in Louis’ hand a long ten minutes later and Louis puts his fingers in his mouth to lick them clean, eyes gleaming in the low lamp light. After being turned over, Louis slicks between his cheeks and fucks him there, not slipping in just gliding between.

He bites at Harry’s neck, soft skin and sweat, then nudges his nose so Harry turns his head and Louis bites underneath Harry’s jaw, marking him. Harry’s eyes droop but still he pushes back for Louis, his body so tired his head aches and he wants to collapse. Louis whines gently, keens and comes.

Harry falls asleep while Louis’ cleaning him, swipes of a flannel, warm water, and wakes up when Louis kisses him.

Through the haze of exhaustion he murmurs thickly, “L’ you, Lou.”

Louis kisses him again. “I love you too, Haz.”     

***

The first time Spencer has a girlfriend he’s three months from being seven. Her name is Holinda, she’s eight years old with short blond hair styled in an adorable little bob, and as a thirty-four year old man Louis hates her. Harry laughs at Louis and he’s two months thirty-three, but Louis tells him he hasn’t met her, hasn’t seen her at school before, hasn’t met her _mother_.

Holinda, according to Louis, is a rude snob and her mother is a right cunt who’s so much a trophy wife she practically glimmers with polish. Harry frowns and reminds Louis that their son’s girlfriend’s mother’s life isn’t any of their concern, and so what if she wants to be a trophy? Louis skulks around the house until Spencer gets home and over dinner he tells Spencer to break up with her. Harry’s getting a headache, not understanding Louis’ insistence at her awfulness, and says, “Spencer and Holinda are _children,_ Louis, I'm sure they aren’t serious. Do you not think you're over-reacting just a little bit?”

Louis sends Harry to school when he knows Holinda’s being dropped off by her mum and not her father. He works through their finances while Harry’s out, just double checking their accountant’s work—so what if he worries—and makes a very unhealthy breakfast  trip to McDonald’s.

Harry comes home with a scowl and Louis lets him rant without saying I told you so. Harry says he hadn’t realised the mother was one of the ‘I’m okay with your lifestyle, but...’ people and is passing her opinions onto her daughter, leaving Spencer confused because she said it was weird he has two dads and for him it clearly isn’t. The mother made note of his books and said she didn’t think they were that good, nor did she quite understand the concept behind ‘The Missing Bone’.

When they're in bed that night and Harry’s nearly asleep, Louis whispers, “She’s a bitch, isn't she? Who over-reacted now?”

Harry groans and lets Louis tighten the grip he has on his stomach.

***

The first time Harry realises properly that his novels, poems and the _one_ film have made him famous is at a book signing.

December the 5th in 2026 has been in his calendar for two months, a scheduled book signing in order to generate interest in a short book of poetry he’s contracted to release by May in 2027. William told him it would be a reading of the book and maybe, depending on the outcome, a chapter reading of a selected book from the audience, and then he’d spend the day signing books until the last person had gone, no later than five pm.

It’s in a new bookstore in London with two sets of staircases, several lounging areas and a tea/coffee area on the bottom floor.

Louis had been saddled into coaching Spencer and Olivia’s school’s football team of the eldest kids and had to take them to an away game on December the 4th, playing the 5th then coming home later that day. It’s one of the unfortunate times that their schedules clash and Louis proposes to take Spencer on his fieldtrip if Harry takes Olivia, or they can let them stay with Gem and Kyle for a few days.

Clearly Harry rings Gemma and asks if Spencer and Olivia would be welcome on Friday after school through to Sunday. Kyle groans in the background but Gemma laughs and tells him of course they’re welcome.

London proves as cold and wintry as Harry knew it would be, William whining about the cold seeping through his gloves when they round the corner, snow crunching after last night’s brief fall. There is at least a _hundred_ people queued on the pavement, wearing thick clothing and flushed cheeks, shivering and huddling to stay warm, his books in their hands and Harry stops, suddenly, eyes widening enough his beanie slips up his forehead a little. William laughs brightly, tugging Harry’s scarf.

“I fucking told you,” he sings. “I told you there’d be more than ever. Films do that.”

And, okay, one person turns to see them and actually fucking _squeals_. The rest turn like they’re playing a game of follow the leader and start tripping over each other to swarm him, talking about the film, all the ways the book was better, their favourite lines, etc. A large man Harry hadn’t seen dressed in all black, a white ‘SECURITY’ written on his shirt, steps in front of Harry quickly, heavy voice telling all the fans to get back in line or they risk going in at all.

It takes a little longer for the people to move and William doesn’t stop laughing.

They’re loud, though, and Harry looks down at his gloved hands to make sure he’s still there. He looks to William and William nudges him forward, following the security man to the back entrance, when Harry realises they’re already around the back of the bookstore. All of those people were waiting around the back, and if they were there what does the front look like?

Harry insists on starting earlier, letting them in from the cold. His fans are all in relatively similar states of admiration, a few of the more outspoken ones joking with him and then telling him his lame jokes are not funny, at all. One asks about Spencer and Olivia, causing another to tell him they saw the candids of them on the red carpet and they looked ‘bomb’.

A group of twenty are taken into a different room with him for an exclusive reading of his poems, which Harry didn’t know was exclusive nor that they had paid for the experience, and the general consensus of the hundreds of people cramming in the three stories was that he read the first and last chapter of ‘A Combination of Love and Stupidity’ which. He balks, a little, having had no idea his first book is still popular ten years later.

It’s then, dumbfounded, Harry’s told by a girl with tortoise-shell glasses and fuzzy dark hair that her sister gave her that book when she was eleven and now twenty one she still tells people it saved her life. Many people begin agreeing and...what the fuck.

Harry’s astounded at their knowledge, their dedication, the individual impact he’s had on each of these people that led to them all being here today.

He calls Louis up and Louis’ team won, he’s home, and he calls Harry a knob for not realising how amazing he is.

The next day he fucks Louis upright against their dresser, the damned thing banging against the wall with every thrust, eating him out after coming and licking into him, two fingers massaging his sweet spot. Harry drags it out, makes stars appear in Louis’ eyes before he lets him come, white streaks over the wall, Louis draped over the dresser with a grin.

***

The first time Olivia starts ballet is in February. Technically it’s pre-ballet but it counts, is what matters. She’s so excited and she gets right into the stretches, Harry and Louis taking turns to stay with all the other parents through their lessons because Spencer claims it’s really boring and he wants ‘to do other not-boring stuff, like sleep’.

They buy her the proper little shoes, the leotard and the tulle skirt, everything. She smiles hugely and won’t stop wearing the leotard for a week, until she gets it dirty and cries while it washes.

Every Wednesday and Friday she has lessons, meaning Harry becomes the primary ballet dad due to Louis’ after school coaching. Louis gets upset about it, in a strop exactly two days before the local high school calls to offer him a position teaching the physical side of PE as one of the women is pregnant and wants to teach less in terms of running around and motivating the kids.

The first thing he does is talk to Harry.

It’s raining and Harry got caught outside taking in the washing, and Louis was prepared to let him soak but he can’t contain himself and bounds outside. Everything feels a little funny, because he can’t say he ever really saw himself teaching—coaching is one thing but being in charge of a kid’s grade? It’s frightening stuff.

Within moments he’s soaked but he doesn’t care, running to Harry and slipping on the grass before he gets there, falling over and laughing. The wet ground seeps into his pants and Louis’ shivering and Harry comes over, weirdly short hair curling on his forehead, and he puts a hand out to help Louis up.

“Lou? You okay?” he asks.

Louis takes Harry’s huge hand but tugs it so he falls down, then effectively rolls them over so the water dripping down Louis’ eyelashes blinks onto Harry’s skin, and everything feel so exhilarating. Harry’s eyes are almost the moon and his lips are pale, pretty, wet, so Louis licks into his mouth and when he pulls back more water drips from his hair and Harry cringes when it hits him.

“Angel, Haz. The local high school wants me to teach,” he informs Harry, licking at the rain on his mouth.

Harry’s eyes are more exhilarating than the storm, paler than they have any right to be under such a dark sky, the warm green and fractions of brown bursting behind his pupil, glimmering like moonlight on water. Light eyelashes and slight stubble, he’s so soft and so beautiful and his cheeks dimple when he smiles.

“Louis!” Harry cries, gleeful, and, “That’s fucking ace, Louis.”

Louis bites at Harry nose and laughs again.

After a few moments, Harry coughs and says, “Louis, Lou your elbow’s in my ribs. It’s a little hard to breathe.”

So the washing gets soaked through, wetter than when it came out of the machine, and Louis gets sick, in turn getting Spencer sick, and they have a more serious discussion later, but. Louis’ _happy._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i recommend you tell me my mistakes bc it's awkward when i re-read it and see them and im like oh god, other people have seen these.. 
> 
> other than that, i love u so much for reading! nothing makes my life better than seeing the stats for this, kudos or comments or hits, like it's really the only thing that makes me happy so thank you sincerely/


	13. watermelon smiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> lilah, helena, calen, niall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i suck!! i am so bad at writing now, god, i just want to apologise. school sucked everything out of me, i made calen up on the spot and he wasn't planned at all! so annoying. 
> 
> from here the time line's going to get expansive, jumping years like it was at the beginning. 'from here' means after this chapter, but kind of introduced near the end/ so sorry for everything. i have no ideas for firsts anymore, my god. im also sorry for whining lmao
> 
> title from panic at the disco's 'behind the sea'

The first time Liam _freaks_ out over the phone to Harry, it takes Harry about three seconds to figure out why and then fifteen minutes to calm him down.

Liam and Zayn have a reputation in the foster care community as willing to adopt anyone. Regardless of age, past issues, race, gender, attitude or physical appearance, they’re not going to discriminate. Zayn mentioned that generally they look for the kids who need the most help.

They’ve had Astrid and Horatio—who was with them for a few months while his mum was in rehab—and Mackenzie—he was with them for almost three years, just before Horatio left, before his godfather stepped up and took him in following meetings every weekend—and once a baby they called ‘Baby’ for a week until the child was adopted permanently. Horatio had hated every second he spent with them, Mackenzie cried on and off for the first five months, spent the next six kicking and scratching them, then was diagnosed with bipolar after his thirteenth birthday. Baby was abandoned in the hospital and the foster home had no available spaces so they trusted Liam and Zayn and Baby was adopted quickly, as babies generally are.

Todd has scars all over his body and he refused to let them buy him pyjamas for a year. At age eleven Todd was almost taken away from them by false accusations made by some prick at school with him and he didn’t get out of bed for long enough Zayn thought he had run away. Liam had come home early from work to see Zayn hugging Todd, Todd’s eyes wide and worried.

Not four weeks ago now, Zayn had called to say they took in a fifteen-year-old girl Lilah who smokes occasionally, her parents passed in a car accident.

It’s four thirty-three in the morning. Everyone is asleep. Olivia is curled around her bigger-than-her teddy bear, face shoved in its fur, and Spencer is snoring gently tucked tightly in his space blankets, Peaches on his forehead. Louis’ leg is underneath Harry’s and his hand is resting on Harry’s bicep, head nudged into Harry’s neck.

On the bedside table, Harry’s phone rings.

He opens his eyes, bleary and blurred, and he smacks his hand out, thinking it’s an alarm. Harry shifts away from Louis and squints at the screen, seeing that photograph of Liam pouting he took after Liam dropped an ice cream cone.

He croaks, “’ello?”

Liam bursts with words. “Harry! Harry, fuck, fuck, Harry, she’s _pregnant_ , she’s pregnant, oh fucking Christ Harry, she’s fucking crying and Zayn’s crying and his mum won’t pick up and mine won’t either, this is _crap_.”

“What the fuck?” Harry squints harder. One, two, and everything melds together. “Oh,” he mumbles. “ _Oh_ , shit.”

It takes a lot of work to calm Liam down. Louis wakes up eventually and Harry scribbles _Lilah’s preg_ wildly on a notepad, too busy talking to Liam to say even that to Louis. His husband’s eyes go wide and he starts pacing.

Liam tells Harry they’re pro-choice about six-hundred times, but they have no idea what to do about this foetus. He puts the phone down for a few, letting Harry talk to Louis in hard whispers while Liam talks to his family. Louis throws his hands into the air and Liam comes back and says, voice the weirdest blend of emotions and tones Harry’s ever heard, “She wants to keep it.”

 

Zayn and Liam adopt her not long afterwards, a twisted Christmas present with the unfortunate timing, but wanting her to feel at home with them and prepare their house for the baby. Harry and Louis pop by whenever they can and Lilah’s taken by Louis, so the two of them talk away from the rest of them whenever Lilah wants to. After the initial shock, Liam and Zayn fought for an entire night on what they should do regarding the matter, Liam more hesitant to accept the fifteen-year-old girl’s pregnancy.

Lilah will eventually tell them the details, why she wants to keep it; she’ll call them by their first names for the rest of her life but start referring to them as her dads and have a hard time accepting help. For now, Zayn tells Harry he’s content if she wants to talk to Louis first as long as she’s okay.

***

The first time anyone’s water breaks in front of Louis, Lilah’s eyes are the widest he’s ever seen them and she looks awfully flushed. Her hand is on her swollen stomach and Todd says, “Ew! Lilah!”

One month early, her baby is apparently ready to come. While they’re shopping for baby clothes.

Louis looks down at the onesie in his hands for an entire three seconds before he shoves it onto the nearest rack, kind of shaky as he yells, “Zayn! Zayn!”

An entire shop full of pregnant people, their partners, friends or family all look to Louis rudely and a baby starts crying. Todd starts imitating Louis, except he shouts, “Dad Z!”

Everyone looks positively appalled and Lilah’s face is _burning_ it’s so red, showing up on her fair skin very clearly. Almost sixteen years old, Lilah complains to Louis about all her clothes not fitting and not wanting to bug her parents about it, she wears a full face of incredible makeup almost every day and hardly wears any shoes but slippers. The month prior her and Zayn had gone to get their hair dyed together and she went a syrupy golden colour, bright green underneath. She’s her own person with a person inside of her, and Louis feels insanely proud of her and she isn’t even his own daughter.

Zayn comes rushing into his aisle when Louis takes Lilah’s hand in his, face red, and he looks ready to snap at Louis. Zayn’s eyes flicker to his daughter while Todd steps over to him and Lilah bursts out with, “She’s coming!”

The next part is a blur, a messy mix of Zayn’s expression and Todd’s confusion and Lilah’s terror, Liam’s excitement through the phone and Harry’s million emoji response. They all befuddle, combine until Louis can’t remember the ride to the hospital or the tears in Liam and Zayn’s eyes when Lilah asks them to stay, his own laugh when she tells him to get out.

Harry’s hand in his, he remembers. Warm, sweaty, huge and consuming and safe. Olivia in her ballet gear and Spencer yawning, stretching and kipping in the chair.

He doesn’t remember the walk into the delivery room hours later, nor does he remember Liam’s tears and Zayn’s smile like sunshine, lighting up the room. Louis can see, however, in perfect clarity the wet strands of hair clinging to Lilah’s young face, the makeup still somehow intact but the flush of her face warming through it, her tired eyes and the baby snuggled against her chest. The baby’s screaming, face scrunched, hair full and dark, and the tiny nose in the middle of her face.

“I’m calling her Helena,” Lilah says loudly, a slight rasp to her voice after the painful experience. “After my mother,” she says a little more softly.

Helena.

Liam takes her and his breath catches audibly as the baby begins to quieten, tired.

Lilah passes out not long after that, several hours of labour being exhausting. Helena is passed around and Olivia doesn’t want to hold her but she touches Helena’s face so gently with her fingertips, smoothing over her temple to her chin. Olivia looks awed.

It will be exactly three days and twenty hours until Liam calls to ask if something is normal, four days until Lilah texts Harry with an exasperated selfie and Helena breast-feeding, less than a minute later until Louis gets a different selfie with another picture of Helena’s mouth milky, eyes closed, seven days until Helena develops a rash and Lilah doesn’t breathe properly until she’s seen a doctor and she’s deemed okay.

Right now though, Helena yawns in Harry’s arms and Harry catches Louis’ eye.

(“We are _not_ , Harry, two is enough.”

“ _Louis_. I know you want another. You’d have thirty if we could.”

“Not when you say it like that.”

“Louis, please?”)

***

The first time they meet Calen, he’s two weeks old.

Born on the 29th of December, 2027, Calen hardly cries at all when they take him home a week later on the 19th of January.

His eyes are big and blue, chubby cheeks, warm skin and soft brown hair.

He was abandoned hours after birth, they’re told, a letter tucked into the coat wrapped around him addressing the baby as ‘Calen Finley’ and speaking of how they didn’t want to leave him but they were in trouble, had to abandon him to keep him safe. It said they loved him and would always, and one day if things were safe they’d come for him.

Louis places the letter carefully into the locked drawer in the office when they get home.

Jay, Dan and the younger twins have come to stay under the guise of a brief trip away from their lives, claiming they missed them so much over Christmas time they just had to visit. Harry knows it’s because they’re worried about him and Louis and their kids, and also want to help with Calen, but it’s cute anyway.

The four of them helped paint and decorate the baby’s nursery the week prior, soft orchard purple walls and Doris, ever the artist, painted a garden on one of the walls. They placed furniture and played with Olivia when Louis needed a moment to breathe, Harry close behind him, Dan took Spencer and Liv to school every other morning and Jay made breakfast if Harry wasn’t awake before her. She would pat his cheek and tell him to sit down before he started to wrinkle like she had. She came with them to meet him the first time and held Harry’s hand when Louis held Calen for the first time, a solid warmth grounding him looking at his third child.

Jay steals Calen the second Harry opens the door for him and Louis, Olivia running around the corner as she hears the door open. Spencer isn’t far behind, Doris and Ernest trailing after him and Dan, smiling and a little bit exasperated.

“Hey,” Louis complains, grinning, then blinks at their family and repeats himself, greeting them.

Nobody says anything, zoning in on Calen, so Harry slips over to Louis and tucks his fingers into Louis’ back pocket. He takes a moment, breathes in the scent of their home and his husband, his best friend, feels the soft brush of Louis’ hair, the apple and berries shampoo, the gentle scratch of his sweater against Harry’s wrist—the only inch of bare skin showing—and feels the warmth radiating from his skin, even on top of all his clothes.

“Hey,” Harry answers, smirking.

Louis wraps an arm around Harry’s waist and leans into him.

***

The first time they hear Calen cry is at four in the morning.

Harry groans and shoves at Louis, turning over in bed pushing his head under the pillows. In his movements, Louis’ gets shoved _off the bed_. Louis is offended, side aching, and gets on his knees to shove back. Harry doesn’t even fucking budge and, of course, like he would, and Louis with his arms spread over the mattress and soft blankets rolls his eyes.

“Right,” he huffs. “Well. You’re an arse of a husband, Harry.”

Harry rumbles his agreement, hand flailing out to pat Louis’ arm. Louis grins a little in the darkness and stands, looking for Harry’s shucked t-shirt. The long sleeves hang over his hands and he steps into a pair of track pants, kicking his foot on the bed frame when he tries to go past.

Louis has to push his mum away from their door when he tries to properly shut the door to not disturb anyone else, laughing quietly when she pushes him back with a kiss to his cheek.

He pads over to Calen’s crib and presses the pad on the wall to get a dim echo of light, bright enough to see but not enough to hurt Calen’s eyes. With the light, Louis turns back and his heart catches in his throat because _there he is_. His eyes are squeezed shut, his nose is wrinkled and his mouth is open, and Louis has only known Calen for at most five days of almost four weeks of his life and he couldn’t picture not being in this moment.

He bends down, curving his arms underneath Calen and feels a rush of fresh love make his fingertips tingle. The sleeves of his shirt are rucked when he shifts Calen forward to lift him up, wrapped in a blanket.

Calen’s face is wet and he’s curling his hands into loose fists. His tiny tongue almost touches the roof of his mouth and he’s making so much noise it hurts to hold him. Something inside Louis hears the sound and it tears him up, a little, and he hugs Calen closer, rocking him. He’s so small, a gentle weight in Louis’ arms screaming and fussing so loudly right next to Louis’ ear. Louis moves on his feet, singing the first song to come to mind—one that he’s been working on, happy and soothing.

He runs out of lyrics soon enough and just hums a melody, rocking around quietly.

Calen stops crying when Louis’ voice goes a little hoarse, croaking in his throat, body so hot against Louis’ and face slowly returning to its normal colour from a rose-red state. Calen’s fist curls and uncurls at the base of Louis’ throat and he yawns widely.

Harry rolls over, makes a sound that quite honestly sounds like ‘blegh’ and groans. He whispers, “Calen...is a right menace. Get into bed, Lou.”

***

Their first Christmas with Calen is just them.

Calen crawls all over the presents, breaking some stuff, tearing the wrapping on others and giggling so sweetly that they can’t really be upset with him.

His irises have lightened to a beautiful bottle-green shade, rimmed with hazelnut brown.

Olivia’s sick and she sneezes all over the place, crying when Louis teases her a little too far, past the point when it was clear she wasn’t laughing anymore. Harry frowns at him but Louis can’t help it, it’s fucking hilarious, and he knows it’s bad to laugh at her misery. He has to pick up Calen to 'change him' even though he did that a few minutes ago just to have an excuse to leave.

Spencer trails after them, nine years old and trying to show Louis a constellation he wants to look at that night. Louis ruffles Spencer's hair and pushes him back gently when he shoves the book in Louis' face. Spencer gets quiet, eyes huge and watery, so he bounces Calen on his hip and asks to see the book.

Baby Calen chooses that moment to start crying and Spencer huffs and asks, “Does he _end?”_

Louis blinks down at him and starts to smile, rocking Calen more. His son’s eyes widen and he says, “No, I meant—oh no, dad, I—”

“Does he _end_ ? Christ alive, ” Louis laughs, the vibrations hushing Calen. He laughs again, and Spencer’s cheeks flush. If he doesn’t stop Spencer will end up like Olivia, so he laughs more softly and reminds him, “Spencer, love, it’s okay. I’m just laughing at the way you said it. Don’t be upset with me?”

Spencer looks down, shrugging and scuffing his feet on the floor. It makes Louis feel bad until Spencer glances through his lashes and then flicks his head up. He’s grinning, one of his last baby teeth making a gap in the side of his mouth and his tongue peeks through it.

He runs away with his book before Louis can do more than make a pretend shocked face. He keeps the face and holds Calen in front of him—his brown hair is sticking up in soft tufts, cheeks almost as chubby as when they first met him, sweet little ears and his little nose, pouty lips and a lovely blush from his crying. He stares at Louis, big eyes and mouth open, before he pokes his tongue out.

Louis gasps and he wriggles in Louis’ arms, laughing.

***

The first time Olivia goes to a proper sleepover she’s nearly eight and Harry and Louis are both dropping her off while Spencer sits unhappily in the car being the moody nine-year-old he’s grown to be—especially while Olivia goes to her first sleepover and he’s never gone to any. Calen’s content to play in the car with Spencer’s hat.

They both go because they’ve not met Taj’s parents before, though they know her from ballet—it’s always been her babysitter picking her up.

If the parents are adverse to Olivia having two dads—rare as it is, now—then Olivia might not stay the night (people do terrifying things in the name of hate). At first, it was only going to be Louis getting out of the car to drop her off but Harry read 'Articles' at the hairdressers and definitely wants to make sure Taj’s parents won’t be anything like he read.

Louis is still going because Olivia insisted he come after already making a promise to do so, and Spencer outright refused to get out of the car, which leaves both her parents on the doorstep, Olivia between them.

They argue about who knocks on the door—and, whatever, Louis knows it’s childish but they still quite haven’t managed the art of being grown-ups—and Olivia gets annoyed then pounds her tiny fist on the white-painted wood and raises her eyebrows at her fathers.

Harry coughs behind his hand, blushing a little, but Louis shrugs because at least someone did it.

There's a scuttling and scuffing sound from inside the house and then the door’s opening to a man they haven’t seen in years after he moved to Australia with his wife and didn’t look back.

“Niall?” comes out of Louis’ mouth.

“Louis?” Niall looks torn between alarmed and excited. Then, “ _Harry?_ ”

“Niall! Mate!” Harry crows, staring for a beat before he drags him into a hug, spindly limbs wrapping around Niall. Louis still looks on, confused. When did Niall come back to the UK? When did he have a daughter? When did he stop messaging them long enough for him to not mention Taj? Is Sara the mother? What...

Just, what?

Louis realises, abhorred, that they hadn’t actually spoken to Niall since June 2021 when they still hadn’t decided on a name for Olivia and then Niall said he was ‘disappearing’ for a few years to get his life in order. They hadn’t understood what it meant because Niall seemed in order enough, but he kept them updated through fucking _post cards_ , like they didn’t have technology, and now here he is.

What a fucking whirlwind.

The first thing Niall says to Harry when he steps back is, “Haz, I saw yer film in Aus, yeah? Was sick.”

His accent is tinged with Australia, a little warped. It’s mostly the same they’ve always known but there’s a weird edge to it that Louis can’t ignore, still stunned.

“Yeah? That’s top,” he answers, smiling. “Was it well-received there?”

Niall replies but Louis doesn’t listen, just blinks and watches his husband and a man he hasn’t seen in five years chat like it’s no big deal, a simple coincidence. A glance down reveals Olivia a little impatient—she’s doing these small movements where it looks like she’s about to break into dance or something—but ever polite she’s smiling and looking around for something to stare at. She catches Louis’ eye and pulls a face, pouting with huge eyes, her bangs in need of a cut as they hang too low on her face. Louis goes cross-eyed and tucks his lips in, smiling. Olivia giggles and contorts her features into disgust, lip curled up on one side and she rolls her eyes.

It takes Louis a second to recognise it as a face he’s pulled before and he feels strangely proud. A smile stretches across his face and Olivia smiles back, a little shy now that they’ve suddenly changed the game.

Louis looks back to Harry and Niall briefly, to see if they’re anywhere near done, and he finds Harry staring at him. His eyes are soft and his gaze is focused, almost like he’s...admiring Louis. Louis ducks his head to catch Harry’s gaze and Harry blinks slowly followed by a series of rapid blinks and he bites his lip as he grins, eyes wrinkling.

Niall grins before he calls out, “Taj! Your friend’s ‘ere!”

There is a thud and some more shuffling sounds and then Sara appears with a petite girl in tow, chocolate brown hair and Sara’s intense brown eyes echoed on her face. Sara is looking rumpled and ruffled, stomach swollen and hair fluffy. The girl just looks delighted.

“Olivia,” she says brightly, running past her parents and hugging Olivia. “Hi!”

Olivia seems a little overwhelmed but she hugs Taj back and greets her.

“ _Louis?_ ” Sara asks, wrapping a hand around her stomach, and god, Louis’ still shocked from seeing Niall let alone his _pregnant wife_.

Harry, though, is still concerned which might be endearing if he didn’t open his mouth and legitimately ask the question, “Are you going to cause any such intended harm to my daughter?”

The cheeky bastard. Louis hits Harry’s arm with his free hand as Niall cackles and Sara looks a little dumbfounded. Harry smirks and Louis whispers into Harry’s ear, “Jesus Christ, angel, you’re a cheeky fuck. You couldn’t let up with two of the nicest fucking people we know. You do talk some shit, Harry, god.”

Harry laughs and says back, “Well, no, it’s not shit because I’m worried about our _daughter_.” Louis rolls his eyes playfully, preparing to answer, but then Harry adds, “It’s like you don’t even watch Oprah re-runs with me.”

Louis blinks and then he’s laughing into Harry’s shoulder and Harry’s smirking like he knew it would come to this. Niall curls his arm around Sara’s waist and grins at Harry, Sara smiling at them like they’re idiots, which. It’s not untrue.

When Louis stops laughing he says, “Sorry husband. I love you, honestly, but Oprah’s shit. She doesn’t even do those kind of shows now.”

Harry shakes his head but before he can answer Louis checks his watch and says, “Well, anyway, we’ve got Spen and our 15 month Calen in the car and they’ll likely want lunch soon. We were only supposed to drop Olivia off and then head out. We’ll have to meet soon, I had no fu—sh—god. I had no clue you were back, or even had Taj.”

Niall beams and Sara says, “Actually, we’re only just back. We’d ‘ve been back sooner but I was holding out for a promotion that’d take us here anyway. With me pregnant we decided it was time to come home—or as close as, anyway.”

“How far along are you?” Harry questions, as if he’s only just noticed. He continues, animated, “Are they kicking?”

“Five months. She’s kicking but not today, she’s been quiet.”

Harry looks disappointed and Louis slides a hand into his hair to console him. Harry purrs for a tiny second before he realises they’re with company and stops, biting his lip and shrugging with a smile.

The girls have disappeared somewhere into the house so Harry calls out, “Olivia! Me and dad are going now! Love you, sweetheart!”

“What?” she calls back, distant.

“We’re leaving!” Harry shouts, echoing. “We love you! Bye!”

“Love you!” Olivia yells.

“Bye Olivia’s dads!” Taj joins in.

Harry beams. “Goodbye Taj!”

Louis shakes his head, bemused, and says goodbye to Niall and Sara with promises to meet up later that month when they’re all free. Spencer doesn’t look up from the backseat, tapping wildly on the latest iPad while Calen finds too much pleasure in dropping the hat in his lap and picking it up again. It makes Harry sigh a little but then Louis gives him a quick peck, and it makes him smile.

(The couples stay in contact after that, becoming really good friends again as their daughters Harry’s a little reluctant to the idea of all of them being friends again, weird memories warping his feelings, but they run into each other at the grocery store and make the effort to have lunch, Liam and Zayn with Todd, Lilah and Helena, and Sara only three months away from having her second child. His cold front melts almost instantly at the sunshine in Niall’s smile when Zayn tells him a story they’ve heard before, and the kindness in Sara’s eyes looking at Todd that reminds him of his mother.)


	14. sprouting sons and ageless daughters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> beach, bubble-boy, first guitars and an anniversary

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for not posting in about a year. school drains me like you wouldnt believe. i persevered and here is a chapter, however much you like it. 
> 
> if you waited for this thank you for still reading. i love you so much x
> 
> title from panic at the disco's 'behind the sea'

The first time Louis takes the kids to the beach, Harry gets dragged into work at the last minute, a meeting about his sales and how someone in editing morphed one of his unreleased ideas and is now trying to sell it to a different company. That freaks him out and Louis’ worried too, but William assures them it’s going to be dealt with within the day. The parents had planned a day trip to the closest beach half an hour away, the weather had turned out thankfully, and Harry buckles Calen and Olivia into their seats while Spencer does his own on the other side.

Louis kisses Harry when he turns away from the car, stepping inadvertently into Louis’ space and making kissing him that much smoother. Harry tastes like orange juice and feels like anxiety, tense under Louis’ palms. When Louis pulls back Harry shrugs, smiling weakly.

“Just...I didn’t expect that something like this would happen.” Harry flicks his hair out of his face and Louis’ still concerned, but Harry ducks his head to kiss Louis again and this time it’s meltingly soft. It leaves a tingle to Louis’ lips and Harry brushes his mouth to Louis’ temple, mumbling, “Love you.”

So Harry leaves and Louis gets into the car, turning in his seat to look at all three of his kids, side-by-side. Calen’s behind his seat, Liv in the middle and Spencer on the far left, staring at the window sullenly—he wanted to show Papa his cartwheel he’d been practicing but Dad had said to wait until the beach instead of slipping on the grass, and now he can’t do any of them.

Calen’s playing with—oh god, who left that in the car—Spencer’s _recorder_ , and it’s only a matter of time until he puts it into his mouth and blows. Olivia looks back at Louis with a bright smile, kicking her feet against the centre console.

Okay.

The drive is spent with Louis putting Spencer’s favourite song playlist on to make him smile, his two eldest singing along. At one point Calen starts hitting Olivia with the recorder, completely not accidentally, and Olivia starts crying while Spencer takes his recorder back, telling Calen he can’t play with it because it’s not his. Calen hears the word ‘mine’ and frowns.

He says, “Mine.”

Spencer denies it, poking his tongue out, then he and Calen both start almost shouting the word. Olivia cries out, “Stop!” squished between the two, and god, it’s like they don’t ever stop.

“If you two don’t stop being so loud, I swear, I’ll pull over the car and we’ll go home,” Louis warns sternly, flicking looks through the mirror. It shuts Spencer and Olivia up, and by default Calen quiets.

By the time Louis pulls into the parking lot, Calen has fallen asleep and Olivia and Spencer are trying to one-up each other with things they know.

They unbuckle themselves and wait by the car, taking the bag from the front seat with snacks, sunscreen and towels. Louis undoes Calen, smiling at the little murmuring sounds he makes when he touches Calen’s nose and whispers, “Cal, buddy.”

He blinks his huge eyes open and yawns, and Louis reminds him, “Beach.”

 

An hour passes before Louis knows it and the sun is high in the sky, sand is all over his fucking body, he’s gotten such a work out keeping Calen from toddling into the water after Spencer and Olivia, who play in the waves where they can stand. Louis’ taken off his shirt, getting an admiring look from a mum with teenaged kids, so he makes sure to angle his wedding ring in the light with a grin to himself. It doesn’t stop her from looking, rather she lets her own ring glimmer in the light and it, quite honestly, makes Louis feel sick.

For lunch they have sandwiches and then Olivia falls asleep on their picnic blanket, so Louis, Calen and Spencer start making sand castles. Calen walks in little stumbling steps to the shoreline to get the wet sand, most of it dripping out of his hand by the time he makes it to them but Spencer just giggles and asks Louis to dig holes under the sand with him to make a tunnel to each other’s hands. The sand grits under Louis’ fingernails and Calen plops on the ground next to him, taking Spencer’s spade and using it to make at least ten very shallow holes.

The sand starts to crumble away at Louis’ fingertips even with the dampness, and he looks up at Spencer who starts grinning, and he digs more quickly. Louis wiggles his fingers against the thin sand wall between them and Spencer shifts his whole body closer to the sand, shoving his arm right through the wall and smacking their hands together.

Louis shouts, “Ow!” instinctively, and then says, “There’s an octopus in my hole, Spencer!”

Spencer shakes his head, laughing, “No, Dad! It’s me!”

“What?” Louis asks, shaking his head as well. “It’s an octopus! Are you a secret octopus?”

“No!” he laughs, fingers wiggling right on Louis’ wrist. Louis sees an opportunity and moves his own fingers, remarking, “Maybe it’s in the middle of our holes, Spence!”

Quick as a flash Spencer’s arm is out of his tunnel and he scrambles away from the hole, squeaking when his hand dips into one of Calen’s deeper holes. Louis laughs and says, “I’m joking, love; there’s no octopuses under the sand.”

Spencer looks so baffled and betrayed that Louis actually snorts, so heavily that he ends up coughing and it wakes Olivia.

Calen drops a spadeful of dripping wet sand on Louis’ shoulder and pats it down, even as it slides off. Louis looks up at Calen and he seems content patting Louis’ shoulder with a sandy spade, eyes now awash with something almost golden brown, still green near the pupil but more pale.

“Dadgy,” he blinks. “Go?”

Olivia laughs.

On the way home Harry calls to tell Louis everything’s been sorted and Louis pulls over to talk for a few minutes. When he gets back in the car, the kids are all asleep. Olivia snores, the only mouth-breather of their bunch, but Louis can’t bring himself to mind.

***

The first time Olivia rides a bike is the day of her 9th birthday, June 2nd, in 2030. She’s had a bike before with the training wheels but she hates it enough that even now Harry doesn’t bring it up, three years after she got on it once, tipped over and refused to touch it ever again.

She has a blue bike with strips of orange and yellow almost like flames. There are optional training wheels in the box by the door, but Olivia ties her hair back messily, shoves the helmet on and insists she can do it without them.

It takes six times of her falling over, one big cry when she scrapes the skin of her elbow, and then she does it. Harry lets go of her and she pedals and she stays upright. The look on Olivia’s face is scared and excited; she looks up at Louis with his phone out, filming, and she twists her head back to shout to Harry, “I’m doing it, Papa!”

It means Olivia loses balance and takes off some skin on her knees, but the matte of her helmet reflects a dull image of her bright world, smile gleaming in the afternoon light and no tears in her triumphant expression.

Calen grabs Harry’s hand and Harry looks down at him. Calen’s beaming up at Harry, a gap in his two front teeth they’re a _smidge_ worried about, chocolate-coloured hair falling over his eyes in gentle curls. Harry raises an eyebrow, smiling back, and Calen asks, “Watch dine-saurs now?”

Louis groans a few paces away. Harry laughs.

“Of course, Cal,” he answers, making Calen bounce happily. Olivia’s pushing her bike to the back garden to ride there, probably, and Spencer’s been listening to music on the egg chair under the extended roof to cover the decking. Calen tugs on Harry’s hand and Louis kisses his cheek when he walks over to help Olivia. “Everyone wants to watch dinosaurs!”

Even Spencer, earphones in, groans.

Cal stamps joyfully. “Dine-saurs!”

***

The first time Spencer attempts to do the laundry, it’s a Sunday.

There are rather...obvious reasons as to why he wants to wash his bed sheets, but the reason he tells Papa later is that he spilled juice on them. Spencer considers literally spilling juice but crinkles his nose at that idea.  

The main word to be focused on is _attempts_ , because...

Well.

He starts out okay, turning on the washer. That’s about as good as it gets for Spencer.

His dads are having brunch with Papa’s editor William and his wife, so neither are there to witness Spencer dragging all his bed sheets down the hallway to the laundry, the bonsai tree he knocks over and the soy melt burning that he makes slosh over the sides of the burner and cool on the hallway table. Olivia’s at ballet and Calen’s at swimming lessons with Helena and Lilah, so Spencer has the entire house for himself.

He uses tissues to clean the spills and drags his stuff the rest of the way, more careful.

“Right,” he says to himself. Spencer stares into the washing machine, the metal abyss, and shrugs. He’s seen papa do the washing before, even dad sometimes, and it’s never looked too hard.

The box of powder says one scoop per wash, so Spencer smells it, inhales a little by accident, and dumps in four scoops. He wants the...stain to come off, okay? The fabric softener is next and there aren’t any instructions. Spencer says, “Fuck it,” and pours in half the bottle, coloured his favourite orchard purple. He absolutely does not, however, stare at the buttons and the touch screen and the one knob that makes their washer seem ancient but makes his dad talk about his old washer in Nana’s house, and just smack his hand down, hoping for the best.

Spencer hastily shovels his stuff into the evil thing, which beeps wildly and asks if he’s sure these settings are appropriate for what he’s about to wash. He shouts, “Yes! Yes, just do it.”

It beeps a little more quietly and the lid closes. That’s done, then, he thinks.

Spencer goes to the kitchen to fix a sandwich then settles into the sofa, blinking through the channels until a documentary on technology taking humans deeper into the ocean than ever before comes on, and he falls asleep when the head scientist is discussing the funding for a test pool.

He wakes up to Calen squealing, Olivia crying and Dad shouting, “Spencer!”

For a split second he stays where he is, enveloped in a warm cocoon of blankets, soft cushions and the low hum of the television. Then the television senses his movement and turns the volume up to what he had it on before—far too loudly—and Spencer blinks his eyes open to see his father with his hair pinned back by flowers, a thin scarf and soap suds in his hands.

“ _Shit_ ,” Spencer swears.

Pa looks like he’s biting the inside of his cheek. He leans down just as Dad yells for Spencer again and whispers, “Dad’s mad, bubble-boy.”

Spencer has never moved as fast as he does then, bolting upright while Pa chuckles and ducks away to avoid his son who then skids through the house to the laundry.

The broken pot, Olivia on her bum, abandoned tissues, burned soy melt, the scent of a dead candle, and... _bubbles_. If there were ever a place with more bubbles and suds, Spencer would love to see it, especially when the washing machine reminds, “Your washing is complete! Would you like me to dry it, or do you have alternate methods?”

Dad turns his way when he makes a sound, socks soaking up soap, and his eyebrows are _high_ —double _shit_. His clothes are covered in bubbles and wetness, a slippery, wriggling Calen in his arms pointing delightedly at the floor which is completely covered in suds like they invested in a new hall runner, spilling out of the laundry. Calen kisses Dad’s cheek once then spots Spencer and says, “Speb!”

Spencer smiles weakly, a little like a grimace. “Calen?”        

“Bubbles!” he giggles.

Spencer takes a risk and glances right at his father, Pa coming up from behind and sliding one of his long arms around Spencer. Dad shakes his head and repeats, “Bubbles.” He looks almost desperately at Spencer. “Are you shitting me? You couldn’t...christ.”

Pa laughs, moving to help Olivia off the floor. She pouts up at him and he picks her up. Spencer feels a little like shit.

The rest of the afternoon is spent cleaning the laundry and hallway—Olivia watches the telly with Calen, but Cal keeps running back into the hallway to play with the bubbles and Olivia complains that her bum hurts. Spencer keeps fucking blushing because not only does he not know how to wash his sheets, but Pa takes them out of the washer to re-wash later and raises his eyebrows at Spencer. And, okay, maybe Pa had washed his bed stuff the week before, so it can really only mean one thing. He doesn’t—he tells his parents he spilled juice on them.

Later, siblings in bed, toothbrush in his mouth, downstairs because they’ve run out of toothpaste upstairs, Spencer hears Dad in the kitchen closing the fridge and giggling, “We don’t have any juice, Haz.”

***

The first time Calen has a guitar, he turns four.

Louis has been arguing with Harry (more like chatting about it in passing moments) about what the big thing they should get Calen for his birthday. Christmas has just been, Louis freshly forty, and they have bits and pieces they were giving him that—like any four year old—he’ll enjoy for a month or two then forget about completely.

Harry wants to get him a guitar, saying it’s obvious when he passes their music room that that’s what he makes grabby hands at, but Louis keeps insisting drums are a better fit because he’s always making little beats with his hands on tabletops.

The compromise is made that they take him out and see which one he ‘oohed’ at more.

Harry doesn’t make Louis feel too bad when Calen almost throws a tantrum when they drag him away from the rows of guitars towering over him. (He teases, “You can’t win all the time, Lou,” and _Louis_ throws the tantrum and refuses to drive home.)

All of this leads to the 29th of December in the year 2031, twelve year old Spencer, ten year old Olivia, and four year old Calen crowded around the dining table, each in their own chairs leaning on the table top.

Louis’ filming and Harry’s so excited? He’s buzzing in his chair, smiling wider than Calen is right now. He and Louis have been up early setting up balloons, the presents, streamers, etc. It’s an incredible feeling to watch Calen’s eyes light up with each new thing he unwraps and remember when they got it, talking about what he’d like and what he wouldn’t to seeing it in action. Sneaking it passed him and hiding it so he wouldn’t accidently find it, and now tearing through the paper to beam at everything unveiled.

When he reaches the guitar, it’s the last thing there. The biggest and at the bottom of the pile. It was ridiculously difficult to wrap earlier but Harry feels proud of himself looking at it. A hand on his shoulder startles him and Harry glances up at Louis, who gives him a quick grin and then directs his gaze to Calen who, rather ferociously, has started ripping.

It’s—the expression on his face when he recognises the small guitar case is one Harry doesn’t forget. It’s almost small enough to look like a ukulele but Calen knows the difference. Spencer’s grinning at his little brother because he and Olivia chose the design for him and helped tune it earlier in the week. Olivia bounces a bit in her seat and Calen opens the leather case and there are actually _tears_ in his eyes, oh god, and Harry feels his own eyes well up.

“Thank you!” he shouts, looking with wide eyes at his dads. Calen reaches his small hands out to cradle the neck.

Olivia strums it and Calen hits her, so Louis has to tell him to behave or he’d go to the ‘naughty corner’ (a corner in the kitchen by a double door and the pantry which is not very frightening but manages to freak him out of misbehaving). Calen leans back in his seat and Harry catches Spencer huff like he’s been dealing with this for so long he’s just tired.

Harry feels so warm when Calen plucks at a string.

Louis squeezes his shoulder.

***

Their first and only 15th wedding anniversary is on 15th of May.

Louis knows this. He does. He spent the entire past month looking for anniversary gifts or cards, any indication to something Harry might want, something they could do. Louis called Liam to ask his opinion, called his mum to ask _her_ opinion too—he even considered dinners he could make in various magazines in the dentist office.

It doesn’t mean that on the 14th of May he has any fucking clue what he’s giving his husband.

It’s a Saturday and Harry bailed early in the morning, kissing Louis with a mouth full of toast to go see a 17 year old girl who has persisted the publishing house Harry’s with to get an interview with him about his next novel (1960’s transgirl in puffy skirts, meeting a pretty boy who doesn’t know anything about her, a crooner who invites her to sing on his album). Spencer is still asleep and Calen munches on his cereal happily while Olivia flits around the kitchen making a milkshake.

When she sits down with it and looks at Louis, her face is a little apprehensive and Louis’ first thought is _fuck, what did I do?_ He smiles at Olivia and she opens her mouth, eyes steeling. “Dad, I need bras.”

Oh.

Oh thank god, Louis thinks. “Yeah, Liv, we can go today.”

She looks relieved and starts slurping her milkshake through a straw. Olivia’s hair falls long and dark around her face and her eyelashes are the same when she blinks up at him, straw in her mouth which she grins around. A little of the milkshake spills out of her mouth and she coughs, pulling herself back and laughing.

Louis laughs along with her, rolling his eyes at his daughter. She catches herself too quickly, eyes glinting in the kitchen window light, and asks too innocently, “What have you gotten Pa for your anniversary?”

He scoffs, definitely 100% at himself. “Nothing yet, Olivia.”

“Let’s go then,” Olivia replies, jumping off the seat with her milkshake. She starts yelling Spencer’s name in between sips, heading up the stairs to her bedroom, feet padding on the carpeted steps. Spencer, not a minute later, comes stumbling down the stairs with his hair an absolute mess, wearing a black hoodie and loose basketball shorts, one fuzzy pink sock and a beanie in his hand. Louis watches him round the corner.

Spencer rubs at his eyes with the beanie hand and croaks, “Morning.”

His cheeks are losing their baby fat, showing a smooth jawline, but not so far along that his cheekbones are defined. Spencer’s still pretty short, in terms of Harry who’s a literal tree, but there’s definite potential for a growth spurt.

Spencer slips on the fuzzy sock, sliding, and doesn’t even register it through a yawn. “Morning,” Louis agrees, pushing his glasses up on his face while Spencer sits down, still yawning, and takes a banana from the fruit display in the centre of the dining table.

“Cal,” Louis asks, glancing over at his youngest son who’s tapping on Louis’ phone in some game Louis wasn’t aware he had, “can I have my phone for a minute?”

Calen yawns, stretching. He rubs at his eyes, so much like Spencer that Louis grins, and he says, “Okay.”

All things considered, Louis has a relatively old phone in that he doesn’t have one of the really new ones the media is claiming is a step away from implanting a microchip to superimpose information straight to the mind. Of course, he thinks it’s a load of bullshit because they’ve been claiming that shit for years now and people still hold their phones, tap to type, etc. The only real difference is the vocal recognition and the fact that the owner of the phone’s hand is catalogued and will unlock immediately in their hand, and other people can be added so that it does the same for them.

Louis rolls his eyes at Calen and slides his phone across the table, slipping it into his hand and saying, “Kevin, could you search for 15 year anniversary gifts?”

Spencer snorts, pushing on the beanie and standing to drop the banana peel in the compost. “Dad,” he yawns, covering his mouth. “That’s tomorrow.”

“I know, Speb,” Louis laments. “I know.”

Kevin, in Louis’ phone, answers, “Louis, the most visited page is an article. Would you like stats or data?”

“Data.”

“Complete or skimmed?”

“Ah,” he hesitates, unsure. Sometimes Kevin can be a little too sparse on his skimming than Louis needs him to be, likely because the technology is made to skim and find what it deems important information rather than what Louis might consider important. An example is the time he asked about the weather for the day, asked Kevin for skimmed data and received the high and low temperatures. Kevin failed to detail that the low meant rain at two in the afternoon when Louis was out jogging at least thirty minutes away from home.

“Skimmed milk,” Spencer says, grinning. He has his hand around a glass of orange juice, leaning on the bench. Calen makes grabby hands at it, so Spencer takes out a plastic cup for him.

It takes Kevin a moment before Kevin’s voice comes through the phone. “Ha ha, Spencer,” it says dryly. “Very funny.”

Spencer chokes on his juice, orange liquid snorting out of his nose and making Louis burst with sudden laugher. Kevin waits and Spencer leans over the sink, coughing and wheezing with laughter at the same time. The sound of Calen giggling filters in to Louis’ ears, bright and happy. A brief moment of light, suspended in laughter. Louis might forget this in ten year, shit he might forget this in ten days, but right now it’s something he holds on to.

Louis calms down and confirms, “Yeah just skim, Kev.”

If Kevin were alive Louis would see its eyes roll at the nickname. Kevin tells Louis optimal gifts are crystal and a watch, red wine and red roses. Crystal is for clear and sparkling love, the watch a symbol of the time you’ve spent together. Spencer heads upstairs and Peaches jumps on the table much to the chagrin of Olivia who, now wearing leggings and a coral jumper, sighs and says, “Peachy, down.”

She doesn’t move, obviously, but Calen remarks, “Peaches is pretty.”

Louis blinks.

He has an idea.

 

“HAPPY ANNIVERSARY” the banner reads.

Louis kisses Harry good morning and Harry shies away from him, beaming at the cheesy sign over their bedroom door. Louis leans back to open his bedside drawer, shoving the lube to the side to take out the gift he and the kids got yesterday. It was wrapped by Olivia and Calen, Olivia folding the paper and Calen sticking down the pieces of sticky tape Olivia had ripped off the roll. It’s a little clumsy but Harry just grins wider as he receives it with both hands, setting it down to shove his own much larger box at Louis.

This box, upon review, is two boxes stacked on top of each other. It’s covered a little oddly because of the two boxes and Louis lifts it, wondering what it could be. He squints at Harry who shakes his head and leans forward to kiss Louis again.

“Open yours first?” Louis suggests, tucking a piece of hair behind Harry’s ear as he pulls back.

Harry agrees, shifting to sit cross legged on the bed. Louis watches his face, hearing the crinkles of the paper being unfolded. He feels a bit jittery and squirms until Harry’s mouth drops open, his cheeks pushing up into small apples, his eyes scrunching, full of joy. Harry gently, carefully, sets the box down and takes one of the items from the black velvet safety. There are four items in total, each different positions and sizes. When Louis and his kids were shopping yesterday they strolled past the opening of jewellery shop and almost didn’t stop, Olivia so intent on getting some support for her chest region that she’d kind of made everyone else intent on accomplishing her mission (except for Calen who was happy enough with playing on Louis’ phone).

Something had caught Louis’ eye and it was _exactly_ what he had pictured that morning at the table. He barely blinked at the price, expecting such a high cost from a jewellery shop, nor did he bother worrying having to pay an extra fee to have some of the gems/crystals swapped. Even now, he can hardly recall the woman explaining the significance of each gem included in the designs, having been so ecstatic at finding the perfect present.

This moment, right now, when Harry lifts the sculpted figurine pair out of the velvet lining, eyes shimmering in the light streaming in from the window. This moment, when Harry holds the two cats fused together in Swarovski crystal, the smaller one with bismuth eyes curling its tail around the larger one with tourmaline green eyes. This moment Louis watches, taking it in, so in love.

The largest cat is roughly 7 centimetres tall, the smaller one about 6 centimetres. Still in the box the next is 4 centimetres tall, the one after maybe 3 and a bit, and the final—the smallest—only measuring 2 ½ centimetres tall.

Azurite, pietersite, rhyolite crystal eyes, and Harry holds the melded cats in front of his eyes and looks overwhelmed.

The cat figurines seemed to be an amazing gift from a higher power to give to Harry, and Louis’ heart swells as his anniversary present makes Harry laugh, a little choked.

“Are these us?” he asks, surprisingly soft in the cool spill of early morning sunlight.

Louis smiles. “Yeah, angel. They’re us.”

The cats go back into their case and Harry kisses Louis gently, caring and lovely. They exchange more tender kisses, and only once Louis dares to swipe his tongue along Harry’s pillow-soft lips does his husband pull back.

For a fraction of a second, Louis thinks he sees a strand of Harry’s hair shine a heavy silver as he moves through the sun. Louis blinks it away, into his memory, but can’t help the shiver move through him when he thinks about the fact that he’s growing old with Harry.

He had always wanted to grow old with Harry, really. Ever since he knew that Harry was his best friend, unchanging, he wanted it unchanged for years and years. Even if it meant watching Harry love someone else, someone new, coming over for the afternoon and seeing him only then rather than spending whole days with him. Louis realises, not abruptly so much as that moment in a movie when all the clues slot together, that he can’t wait to have wrinkled skin and bad eyesight and still have Harry by his side.

Harry folds the lid down and sets it aside, encouraging Louis with slightly red cheeks to open his things now.

So Louis does. The fanciful bow comes undone in a single tug and he rips the paper, not meticulous in his curiosity. Harry urges him to open the bigger one first so he settles the other on his side and opens the sleek black box lid to reveal what is underneath.

The lid is hinged and under it there is an extremely soft looking dress shirt encased in a white, matte frame. The dress shirt is an empty black, so dark and smooth that the crispness of the folds and the collar seem almost intimidating and yet also yearning for the soft skim of his fingertips.

It’s so beautiful it seems almost sinful.

Little known fact: Louis _loves_ expensive dress shirts.

Harry smirks at Louis’ stunned look. The shirt must have cost a fucking fortune. He dares to slide his fingers over the buttons and Harry pleads, laughing, “Lou, do the other.”

Louis reaches for the smaller box. It’s a subtle pink shade with a bold black, silky ribbon and a black bottom. The silky ribbon allows a slight indication of what the box contains. He is careful with the removal of the lid, and his whole body flushes when his eyes catch sign of the second gift Harry’s given him.

Covered by crinkling, thin black paper is a piece of [lingerie](http://www.aubade.com/douce-faveur-231.html).

Louis takes the underwear out of the curling edges of the paper, breath stuck somewhere between his lungs and his throat as the meltingly-soft fabric of the pale briefs slips around his fingers, falling like water.

With a drawer dedicated to lingerie, Louis now knows the terms to describe the amazing briefs in his hands. It has a diamond of plumetis on the front with lace wrapping around the sides to make up most of the back. There’s a V-shaped detailing on the back with satin ribbons and another slip of the plumetis. It’s all coloured a blush pink, soft and sweet.

Sunday means all their kids are sleeping in, even Olivia because Louis stayed up with her to watch one of Spencer’s documentaries about astronomical developments to take notes on for a school speech. It went for longer than either of them had bargained for, ending late enough that it was no longer Saturday, and he ushered her into bed the moment it finished.

Sunday means that Louis can lean over the bed, pushing Harry down to straddle his hips and kiss him, ravish him. Louis kisses his husband in devastatingly slow presses, tantalising slips of his tongue and a tender touch of teeth to the fullness of his bottom lip. He kisses Harry like he’s the colour of the panties, cotton candy sweet and enticing, teasing. Baby pink touches of his fingertips to Harry’s collarbones, pale pomegranate grips of his clean hair, tea rose nips and bubblegum breaths, stolen from his lungs.

Harry moans the sound of carnation petals shifting in a cool wind and Louis presses his body down so that Harry gasps, inhaling sunlight and a fresh clarity. Louis’ eyes blur, a little, and he kisses Harry again in a sliding movement.

“Happy anniversary,” he murmurs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> loved writing the colours, the cats, the panties!!! wow. note, theyre the same brand as the last ones i cant get enough of that site. also, i kept yawning when i wrote about spencer yawning and have yawned jsut now lmao
> 
> you're really fucking awesome for being here. thank you


	15. we're still so young

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> walked in on #1, walked in on #2, fight, laura

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sup. i wanted to post and i had enough to do it, so!! in the last part, a girl has an abortion and it isnt super significant so you can skip it if you need to; it's nothing explicit, though, just wanted to mention it. 
> 
> title from panic! at the disco's "the only difference between martyrdom and suicide is press coverage"

The first time they get walked in on is a scarring experience for all of them. Spencer’s fifteen, Louis’ forty-two and Harry’s forty-one. Louis’ riding Harry at half past two in the morning because that’s quite frankly the only time they have alone these days.

They’re both panting, tiny breathy moans escaping from their lips in an attempt to stay quiet. Harry’s voice is a little heavier, grunting occasionally in deep, almost gruff tones. Louis is rocking back and forth, using the muscles in his legs either side of Harry’s smooth hips to build a rhythm of lifting, rocking, shifting down. Harry has his large, warm hands on his husband’s waist, guiding him and giving some extra assistance—though Louis, honestly, doesn’t need much help.

“Lou, Lou, come on, babe,” Harry groans, shaking slightly at how ridiculously hard it is to stay quiet. His fingers dig into Louis’ sides, curved and soft with firm muscles underneath, and his fingernails bite at Louis’ skin. It makes Louis gasp, head falling back, as though this hint at pain is all Harry needs to unravel him. “Want you to come, c’mon, please,” he hisses softly through his teeth, words skipping up Louis’ sweaty torso and hardening his nipples.

Louis presses his hands into Harry’s chest, digging his own fingernails into his sides before lifting himself up again. He shifts, knowing how he and Harry fit together so that when he slides back down Harry’s cock it’s pushing against the sweet spot covering his prostate. The breath he sucks in makes his chest tight and he can’t help the moan that pours out of his throat, Harry bucking up. Louis leans down to kiss Harry and their bedroom door opens and

“Are you guys awake? I need—oh my god. What the fuck; oh, _ew_!”

There are footsteps scuttling away from the door.

Louis stops dead and Harry doesn’t move in response. They stay still for a moment, frozen like badly painted Roman statues, before they realise neither of them are going to finish now. With a great sigh and trembling thighs, Louis picks himself up off of Harry, dick softening, and flops down on the bed next to Harry.

They’re still for another moment, side-by-side, until, “Shit,” slips out of Louis’ mouth. Harry starts to giggle which makes Louis start too, then both men are laughing so loudly that, unbeknownst to them, Olivia stirs in her bed from the other side of the house upstairs.

They can hear Spencer from the kitchen groaning to himself through the still open door, and can hear when he mutters wildly, “This isn't funny! I'm scarred for life, Christ. You're my parents, why are you fucking laughing?”

Eventually they calm down, but it takes a whole other minute for Louis’ stomach to stop cramping and Harry has to keep wiping tears from his eyes. The two argue briefly about who goes out to talk to him; Louis says if Harry goes he’ll teach Olivia about the birds and the bees which is due in full detail, undisclosed, but Harry counters that by arguing that if Louis goes he’ll do that, give Spencer the talk about the usage of condoms and not getting people with vaginas pregnant, _and_ do most of the talking when they have to give the speech to Calen. Louis takes that offer as soon as it’s on the table, making Harry act offended like he’s been played. Louis jokes that it’s because he’s fairly sure he wouldn’t be able to get through any of those things without laughing and making their kids confused, but Harry’s eyes remind Louis that there is no bullshit Louis can spin that Harry would believe at this point.

Harry reaches up to kiss Louis softly before he tugs on stripy blue pajama pants and a plain white shirt—judging by the size, it’s not his shirt. Just before he leaves the room he has a thought and ducks back into the bathroom to wash his hands.

Louis shuffles out into the kitchen and finds Spencer sitting at the dinner table with his head in his palms and a drink of apple juice next to him. Louis crinkles his nose at it, never a real fan of apple juice.

“Spencer,” Louis begins as he opens the fridge door to grab out his own drink—water—and takes the seat opposite his son. He spares a thought to wonder what his mum might have said to him as a kid, but he gets nostalgic far too quickly and it reminds him they need to make the trip to see her soon, before Christmas. Louis takes an approach she probably wouldn’t have. “I think I should say sorry on behalf of me and Pa. I want you to know I’m not apologising for us having an active sex life,” Spencer groans, “but I will say sorry for you _seeing_ your father and I’s active sex life.” He groans again and Louis snorts, taking a swig of water.

“Pa and I are quite sorry you saw that, but to some extent I think you should feel at least a tid bit sorry for us. We’ve you kids wrapped around us in the day, we’re in love, it’s two in the morning... Like, I know I talk a lot of shit, love, but what did you expect us to be doing? I mean...sleeping, obviously, but.  In any case, Pa and me are sorry.”

Spencer raises his head and there are literal tears in his eyes. “Dad…you’re such a bad parent. You need to stop, I’m, like. It doesn’t matter, really, please. Let me live.”

Honestly, Louis could have taken the ‘responsible parent’ route and not made a joke of things, but at least with this he’s gearing Spencer about real life and also making it so that if he ever reflects on this memory, it’ll be coloured with his dad making things worse. Maybe he’ll laugh in the future. (Harry listens from their bedroom, cackling like a witch into his pillow.)

“Spencer, I thought we’d already been through this, but did you think that you just came from the sky? A stork? Grown from a seed in the garden? Because I have some news for you, son; when a mummy and a daddy love each other very much, and they want to have little Spencer’s and Olivia’s and Calen’s, they—”

“Dad! I don’t want to know. Can you leave me alone, please?”

Louis coughs a laugh, trying to remain serious, and says, “I’m sorry, Spencer. I was only going to let you know that they do, in fact, plant seeds in their vegetable gardens. Me ‘n Pa are always hoping for carrots or beans but getting babies instead.”

Spencer raises his eyebrow. “And the woman who birthed me planted me in her garden?”

Louis smirks and his son looks worried for the answer. “No,” he starts, grinning, “but your bio daddy planted _his_ seed in her garden.”

Spencer looks absolutely appalled, mouth dropping open as he shakes his head. A second later Harry’s laugh bursts into the kitchen, loud and obnoxious, as though he’s right there. The two only catch the trail end of a very long laugh and it means Louis starts to laugh, and with Louis laughing Spencer has a smile twitching at the corners of his mouth that he tries to stop. Because he’s their son he can’t, and he ends up laughing too, warm, rough sounds that echo like sunlight in a dark room.

Apparently unable to take it anymore Spencer stands up, pours the rest of his juice down the drain and mutters, still chuckling, “I have the weirdest bloody parents. It’s good they have each other.”

“Excuse me?”

“Nothing,” Spencer answers. He shakes his head again and hesitates before hugging Louis briefly in a goodbye, trudging back over to the stairs up to his room.

“Brush your teeth, Spencer,” Louis reminds softly and hears Spencer sigh.

Louis only realises the next morning he didn’t ask what Spencer needed at two in the morning. He vows to ask when Spencer gets home, but Harry gets home from work early and they try again, and Louis forgets for the time. When he does get around to asking over breakfast, Spencer shrugs and doesn’t mention in the daylight that he thinks he needs help.

***

The first time Harry walks in on one of his kids, it’s Olivia.

It’s a weekend and he’s folded laundry while Louis coaches his 9-11 year olds, Calen allowed to play even though his birthday’s way at the end of the year and drops Spencer at his friend Tarima’s house. Harry hasn’t really thought about what Olivia’s doing because she had Taj over the night before and they’ve been laughing around the house since breakfast. When Harry breaks out the vacuum, Olivia and Taj head up to her room to avoid the music it’s going to play while he cleans and Harry smirks, singing loudly. He keeps the vacuum going and gets so wrapped up singing along and folding he kind of forgets they’re home.

So he heads to her room, knocks out of habit with the laundry basket on his hip, trips into the room and sees Olivia with her hand pulling out from under Taj’s top, Taj with wide eyes and red lips startled into non-movement. Harry takes in Olivia’s swollen mouth and her cross-legged position to Taj on her knees, and he backs out of the room immediately.

The door clicks shut with a resounding thud, echoing down the quiet hallway where Harry’s music doesn’t quite drift.

He yells through the door, “I’m coming back in! Make yourselves decent!”

“Pa!” Olivia yells back. “Don’t! Give us a few minutes.”

“Olivia, please!” Harry shouts.

There’s no reply but a huge sigh, and Taj’s cautious laughter.

Harry opens the decorated door to his daughter’s bedroom and Taj is sat on the bed while Olivia sits on the floor on a pile of pillows. It’s not really any better but he thanks the high heavens he doesn’t have to see anything else.

With raised eyebrows, he admonishes, “Olivia, you know the rule we gave Spencer when he dated Molly. Door stays open from now, Liv, whether it’s Taj or Andy or anyone else. We’re clear?”

She rolls her eyes but he forgives her immediately because she’s clearly embarrassed. “Yeah, Pa,” she agrees, cheeks blushed. “All clear.”

Harry sends a message to Louis reading _liv’s all grown up_ with a picture of a grapefruit. Louis sends five question marks back, then Cal takes Louis’ phone and starts sending Harry long paragraphs from the suggested words. He doesn’t head back upstairs until Sara comes to pick Taj up and the girls, looking sheepish, hurry to the door before Harry can invite Sara in for tea.

Taj waves goodbye, saying, “Thanks for having me, Harry!”

She gives Olivia a play kiss from her hand, blowing it in the wind. Olivia catches it and it makes him smile.

He tugs Olivia into his spidery arms and she doesn’t squirm too hard to get out of his grip while they watch the car peel away from their house. Harry rests his head on Olivia’s bun and says, “You know you could have told us, right?”

She shifts. “I...yeah, of course. I—me and Taj aren’t, like. I wanted to, ah, make sure I liked girls before I told you and Dad. Sorry. On the bright side, I’m not straight?”

Harry chokes, snorting. “Well,” he drawls, “thank god.”

“I’d be such a disgrace to your not straight legacy,” Olivia intones, twisting out of her father’s arms.

He nods solemnly. “Precisely. I’d have you disowned otherwise.”

She rolls her dark eyes and he laughs brightly, right before it starts to rain.

***

The first time the school rings home about Calen, they call Louis first.

Having been binge watching a new show on telly, Louis answers relatively distracted with a mouth full of beans. These are the same beans that almost come spilling out of his mouth when the woman on the other end of the line informs him that Calen, his sweet son, has been in a fight.

Calen has just only recently won an award for his English and Literacy skills and the last thing Louis expects is this phone call. The woman sounds bored and concerned at the same time, a skill she’s no doubt perfected for times like these when she really doesn’t care but has to show some emotion, and at the same time keep her heartless reputation intact. Louis isn’t rude, gathering all the details she can give him and thanking her before hanging up and taking a moment to roll his eyes. Meaningless, because no one sees, but it makes him feel better.  

Within the next thirty minutes Louis’ dressed himself more properly than baggy track pants and one of Harry’s jumpers, and is stepping into the school office.

The first thing he sees is his son. Calen sits on one of the chairs lining the office wall, looking absolutely miserable; his hands are in his lap, an icepack around his wrist, face and eyes downcast and not even twitching when Louis comes in. From the side Louis notes his slightly puffy cheek, cool bruising underneath his eye which is either leaking or Calen’s crying; Louis isn’t sure which would be worse.

“Calen?” he chances, stepping closer to his boy.

Calen looks up and there is something instinctive that tugs in Louis’ stomach, human nature at its most primal, when he catches Calen’s tear-filled eyes, hair sticking to his forehead and an expression that cries _believe me_. “Dad,” he says, quietly, and Louis—

He steps closer and Calen lets the icepack fall to the floor, forgotten as though it hadn’t ever existed and the cold around his wrist was something like pain. He clings tightly, like moss to a tree branch, liquid grief pooling rapidly and soaking into the side of Louis’ shirt as he shakes.

Harry arrives then, skidding around the corner with his legs for days and a pair of sneakers. His laptop bag swings, bouncing on his hip, and he frowns deeply at Louis and Calen—his features crease into the soft, wrinkled lines beginning to set on his face, though not so much around the mouth where Harry has smile lines, not frown lines.

Louis shrugs as much as he can without disturbing Calen, mouthing, _Hi_.

Harry flings his arms into the air. _What the fuck?_

Making a largely confused face, Louis moves his arms to settle more comfortingly around Calen. _No fucking clue_ , he responds, shaking his head in minimal movements.

Their son sniffles against Louis and steps away from him, wiping at his face to smear the tear tracks away. Calen yelps when he tries to use his wrist for this, and even though it tears at Louis he has to laugh. Harry snorts from the door and Calen glances over quickly, smiling as he catches sight of his other dad.

“Pa, hi,” he greets, reserved. Calen has always been the most socially awkward of their bunch. Spencer had no problems playing with other children, talking to adults and any other interactions; Olivia had been a little shy meeting new people, quiet through her first ballet lessons and unable to talk about friends for the first days of school until a girl she’s no longer friends with asked her if she had any fishies. Calen was always the one at parties they had to literally explain was shy, quiet—they had to urge him to leave their side and sometimes he would cling to Harry or Louis’ sleeve, huge eyes and fingers curled. The two have discussed it before, but never really found a definite answer as to why on their part.

At home Calen’s not shy at all, which is why he seems reserved; at home, comfortable around people he loves who love him (so much), he laughs loudly and can spend a lot of time never shutting his mouth.

His social problems also make it harder to piece together why he was in a fight.

The three of them sit down and wait.

Harry, stretching his arm over Calen’s shoulders so his hand rests at the base of Louis’ neck, asks, “Cal, buddy, what’s up?”

Calen, oddly, refuses to say anything, lip quivering a little and he shakes his head. Harry shrugs at Louis and Louis purses his lips. Before he can try, a woman steps out of the door they’re beside with an older boy in tow, lip bloody and holding an icepack to his stomach. He’s not much taller than Calen but he looks at least eleven years old, a bit of a smarmy haircut and a smirk when he sees Calen.

The boy’s mother, presumably, has her hair pinned in some complicated twists and braids that Olivia’s dance teacher had tried to get them to learn to help Liv with her hair for concerts. Unsurprisingly, Louis hadn’t picked it up—he does, however, get distracted by the way Harry’s long fingers twist the silky strands, rings gleaming.

This woman seems relatively young to have a child as old as hers, meaning it’s likely she either had him young or she adopted him a few years after his birth. She’s wearing a beige dress, sleeves coming a few inches short of her wrist. In and of itself this isn’t awful, yet... The skirt of the dress is made of masks piled one on top of the other so it has some flare around her thighs, all adorned with gold and burgundy detailing.

It’s a trend Louis doesn’t understand. (Harry explains it has to do with self-expression and represents the layers of masks people hide behind, but Louis asked if that fashion trend of everyone having literal astronaut helmets as _bags_ had to do with self-expression and Harry snorted.)

She doesn’t seem like her son, giving the three an apologetic smile, a hint of anger teasing in her eyes and flirting with her expression when she glances briefly back at her son.

The pair are out of there as quickly as they’d appeared and Harry, Louis and Calen are ushered into the door by the office lady—the same one on the phone, by the inflection in her voice.

The principal of Cal’s school is named Mr Wilkerson, wears an expensive three-piece suit, hair smoothed back and has soft cheeks. His presence takes up more space in the room than he does physically, and they’ve met before in passing when Cal first started but it’s unlikely this man, in his late thirties, remembers.

Wilkerson smiles tightly, rising to greet them. He shakes their hands and gestures for them to have a seat. Harry sits with Calen taking the space next to him, and Louis chooses to remain standing behind his family.

“Call me Bill,” Wilkerson says, eyes scanning over his desk briefly before he looks up and gives them another smile, this more open. “Bill Wilkerson. That way we won’t get confused if I call one of you Mr Tomlinson.”

He laughs but it isn’t funny. Louis smiles and slides one hand on Calen’s shoulder and the other into Harry’s hair. Wilkerson realises that no one’s laughing and his laugh peters out, the smile lines remain but the sound drifts somewhere else.

Louis, honestly, doesn’t take in a lot of what Bill Wilkerson says. He listens to the parts about Calen but when he isn’t talking about Cal’s punishment or alternate options to violence or how the school won’t tolerate that kind of behaviour, Louis just doesn’t deem it important enough to listen to—or, give his full attention to, anyway.

Harry makes sounds and interjects in the right places so Louis just assumes he’s taking it all in and will inform Louis about anything he should have heard.

At the end, Wilkerson looks content having just suspended Calen for three days. He smiles, using teeth, and makes a final hand gesture when he asks, “Any questions?”

“One,” Louis answers, frowning. “Do you know why they were fighting?” Bill Wilkerson’s face twists, confused, and Louis shrugs, shifting his footing. “Because you said a lot just then but you didn’t mention anything about why Calen and the other boy were fighting.”

Calen says, quietly, “He called Gee a faggot.”

They haven’t heard that word in a good few years as most people decided to stop abusing the term like it meant something more than a disgusting slur.

Louis raises an eyebrow at the principal and he looks away. Bill Wilkerson diminishes under the gaze of two _clearly_ not straight parents, his hand gestures shrivelling away as his eyes flit over his desk. Harry and Louis negotiate for Calen to have one day off not regarded as a suspension, and Bill Wilkerson sighs when he agrees.

They meet Gee—Calen’s friend—a few weeks later for waffles with Gee and his mum, before Calen waves goodbye to his parents climbs into the unfamiliar car. Louis leans against Harry’s solid chest, shying away from the summer-to-autumn wind, and Harry pulls him closer. The last first sleepover.

***

The first time Spencer goes to an abortion clinic, he’s with a friend’s girlfriend. Her name is Laura and his friend doesn’t know she’s pregnant. Spencer knows that it’s wrong; not the abortion, Christ, but by his own morals it’s wrong that his friend won’t know about his first potential child.

Laura’s only sixteen and she’s scared. Her hands are small, delicate bone structure that trembles as she clutches the credit card her mother threw at her when she said she’d need money to have the abortion.

Spencer sees her hands and he takes the credit card to put it in his pocket. He grabs her hands and covers them with his own.

Her eyes flick up and they’re filled with tears, so blue Spencer can’t help imagining a newborn with those eyes. Spencer lets the image fall away and he nods at Laura, once and assuring. She nods back but her watery eyes spill over and land on their hands. Spencer smooths her hair back from her forehead and sits back in his seat, leaving a hand entwined with one of Laura’s. She’s gripping his palm back as though she’s not entirely sure he’s there.

They’re like this for a while, and sometime after the first ten minutes Spencer begins mumbling unimportant facts about everything he can think of. First they’re facts about the human brain and then they’re facts about humans then facts about evolution which leads to facts about religions and then facts about animals and he finishes off with statistics of the average human deaths per year.

The words don’t make Laura feel better but her grip loosens until they’re holding hands rather than Laura holding onto him like a lifeline. Spencer’s voice is warm and strong, the kind you expect from a doctor as he’s fixing you up and making you better.

Laura says, eyes clear, “Spencer, you should be a doctor.”

He stops talking and blinks. “Yeah?”

She nods, solemn. “Yeah.”

Laura then looks at his hand in hers and thinks they look like doctors hands too.

Spencer shakes his head with a faint smile. A doctor...

“Tell me a story, babe?” she asks, and her voice quivers in the middle. Laura coughs and shakes her head, shaking it off. She grins, half-hearted. “Fucking hormones.”

Spencer breathes out slowly and begins to tell a story his parents used to tell him when he was five and afraid of the dark—so caught up in space that empty space was terrifying. “Once upon a time, there was a prince. He was scared of the dark and the way the wind would whisper when he walked. The prince’s name was Harry. Harry was only six, yet he didn’t have any friends and preferred to stay away from the other princes.

“One day his mother, a queen, took him and his sister, a princess, on a picnic to a nearby park. Harry didn’t want to go, but his mother gave him a ball to play with while she and his sister ate tiny triangle sandwiches and took tiny sips of tea from tiny cups.

“Prince Harry was playing with his ball when he heard the wind whisper in the trees a little distance away. He stopped and turned around quickly, trying the catch the wind, but he was too late. It was gone. When Harry went to play with his ball again, that was gone too, but in its place was a boy with a crown too big perched on his head. There was also a smile on his face and a question in his eyes.

“The boy stretched his hand out with a big grin on his face, and said, “Hi, I’m Louis.” Prince Harry’s eyes widened because he’s heard tales of King Louis, the bravest king to ever live, and this boy was his son. Harry was so stunned he couldn’t move, so Louis dropped his hand but not his smile, and he asked, “Are you an angel?”

“Harry giggled, forgetting about the dark and the sea and the way the wind weaves its way through tree leaves. He also forgot about his ball, and he looked away as he replied, “No, no I'm not an angel at all silly. I'm just a boy!” and he looked back up. Louis wasn't there anymore, but his ball was back and—”

This is when someone calls out, “Laura Bradshaw, they’re ready for you.”

Laura stands up, stretching falsely like it’s not a big deal when she looks so scared. Spencer stands up too and hugs her as tightly as he can. He murmurs, “I’ll be right here when you get out, okay? Right here.”

Laura mumbles back, “Thank you,” and the nurse gives Spencer a smile before he leads her away.

Spencer thinks about when he was scared of the dark and wonders if that’s how Laura feels, scared, alone, trapped within a barrier of never-ending space.

When she comes back out sometime later, she looks tired. Someone prattles off information on what she should and should not do and Spencer has threaded their fingers again because if she does feel any of the things that he used to, he can at least let her know she’s not alone.

Spencer decides that Laura’s not going home to a house where her mother hates her and her father’s apathy could drown someone, because they won’t understand anything at all and Spencer leaves with twenty new facts about abortions.

The walk back to Spencer’s house is short and it’s weird how he never knew there was an abortion clinic so close. He supposes it’s because when he was six or seven maybe ten years ago, there was a huge deal about abortions, the legality, ethics and moral issues, etc. It’s not impossible that this clinic has been there since, disguised.

Laura’s quiet the whole walk but as soon as they enter the house, Pa’s there. He smiles kindly, if confused, and he tilts his head then says, “Shouldn’t you both be at school?” He flicks a glance at his watch, reminding himself of the time. “Like.”

It seems as if this is all Laura had needed, the only catalyst to her emotions spilling forward and tumbling into the world blindly. Laura breaks down, beginning to cry profusely. Pa moves quickly, wrapping his arms around her and letting her sob into his chest. His eyebrows are raised at Spencer and Spencer doesn’t know how to explain silently in a way that isn't crude, so he just points to his belly, makes a large bump over it as if to indicate pregnancy and then makes a cross with his fingers.

Pa looks confused for a moment until it clicks and his face is pained and his heart grows heavy, reassessing the situation. He says softly, “Come on, love. Let’s get you to the sofa and we can watch Friends, yeah? My husband, Louis, brought the box set last month and we’ve yet to even open the package.”

She wipes at her eyes, laughing weakly. “I know it’s stupid, I just.”

Spencer laughs with her, gently, and walks with Pa and Laura to the living room. He takes a handful of tissues while Pa sets Laura on the sofa, fluttering away to find everything he knows makes his children feel better. Spencer sets up the television, making jokes with for Laura’s sake while Pa goes out of view—and into view and out and in and out—and when he finally comes back his arms are full of blankets and sweets. Lots and lots of sweets.

He dumps them all on the floor and says to Spencer, “Get this sorted, will you Spencer? I’m going to make hot chocolate.”

Pa walks off and Spencer looks at Laura. She looks at him then back at the pile and she laughs. “Your dad’s the best. Thank you, I mean, for letting me stay here.”

Spencer snorts and shakes his head. “The best. Please, you’ll take that back when he starts telling you knock-knock jokes. I shit you not, Laura, he once told us about forty jokes in a row and Liv, my sister, recorded herself answering and just kept playing it back. Plus, wait ‘til you meet the other one—he’s likely to be even worse.” She laughs softly and he continues, more gently, “About letting you stay here; I wouldn’t let you be anywhere else, to be honest. So, just sit and let my parents coddle you.”

Then he fixes the blankets, instructs the telly on what he wants. When Pa comes back with marshmallows in their hot chocolates both he and Laura are asleep next to each other on the sofa. Spencer’s legs are tucked up and Laura’s curled on his legs like they’re a pillow.  

Not quite asleep, Spencer hears Pa sigh and wonder aloud who this girl even is.

 

Laura stays with them for a week until her grandma shows up, apologises on behalf of Laura’s parents’ attitude and beliefs. She thanks them and she takes Laura away. Laura’s crying again as she gets into the car and they all miss her when the car drives off. Cal misses her most, because she was always available to play whatever games he wanted to.

None of them ever see her again and Spencer doesn’t open his mouth to tell his mate anything when he asks if he knows where Laura is and if she’s coming back. Laura texts him though, lets him know how she’s doing. She’s doing fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yikes so i just wanted to clarify, when spencers like "its wrong my friend wont know about his potential bb :(" it's not my own personal view, and i know that laura doesn't have to tell the friend shit because it's her own body and the friend has no control over her decision anyway. it's just something i wrote, not what i believe. spencer will grow, it's okay


	16. let the sun rain down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> as defined by my "important dates" document: spencer has SEX, harry burns his wrist lmao, VEGETABLES!, solo chic, Spebre leaves, Bronte, Tom, Calen bb for purpose, and Tom Breakup

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello! old and new readers, im just glad u could join me for this mess. the sex first up was written to adele's 'river lea' on repeat - i couldn't tell you why. this is a longer chapter for no real reason, and i want to clarify that i suck with posting. also, i am nearing the end and got really emotional, like god what am i going to be like at the end end? enjoy, kids 
> 
> title from 'the ballad of mona lisa' by p!atd

The first boy Spencer has sex with comes like a build up, as though they’d been leading to it all these years—a damned river—and only now does it overflow.

Izar’s been going by Michael, his middle name, since he turned seventeen and wanted people to stop saying his name ‘i-zar’. Spencer couldn’t figure out for weeks why he’d want to go from Izar to Michael when Izar was so pretty, a name that melts off his tongue and swims in the air. He respects his best friend’s choice, but it doesn’t stick in his head yet and he still thinks about it at night sometimes when he can’t sleep, and wonders how he’d be able to tell him apart from the hundred Michael’s he knows and the one Izar.

It’s a warm afternoon, hot enough that the two of them in Spencer’s room feels like an oven and he’s sweating, fanning his face with his Chemistry textbook—their teacher is the only one who refuses to give them the digital version even though there are hardly any physical copies of textbooks anymore.

Izar has clean, soft skin and brown eyes like liquid gold, pools of honey redwood doors and brown sugar. His hair curves in open curls, his body is lithe with too many limbs and not enough flesh, enough muscle to make his frame graceful. Izar blinks and Spencer’s heart thumps a little harder.

“Remember when we were like, ten,” Izar says, sudden in the muggy air. Spencer knows, immediately, where this memory is going. “It was that really hot day and everyone was talking about how crazy it was, how it was so hot.”

They weren’t ten, and Spencer doubts Izar doesn’t remember that either. They were twelve and thirteen, visiting a fair. A circus, one of the last before they were banned from Europe. Being older, Spencer had felt in charge.

“They had that fair, remember? With the lions. The puppets, and acrobats and dogs. Your pa didn’t want us going and we snuck out like fucking dolts.” He laughs and Spencer knows he’s supposed to laugh too but his throat is too dry. “We got tickets and we went in and it was like a dream. Everything was so surreal, like, I remember when you told me you were getting us a drink and came back with ice cream, popcorn and a single bottle of soda.” Spencer swallows.

Izar flicks him a glance. He knows what he's doing.

He says, “You know what happened then.”

And Spencer—okay. Yeah. He knows what happened then.

Izar had swallowed all of the soda in one big gulp because the heat and the people crowded around them like insects swarming. This weather was new and Spencer had eaten his ice cream and popcorn in mouthfuls of far too much than his mouth could hold. Izar laughed when popcorn had spilled from his lips and Izar brushed his fingers against Spencer’s to grab his own ice cream and Spencer had—

“Iza—Michael,” Spencer says.

Spencer had been overtaken, the idea that anything was possible with two pounds and a fair ticket in his pocket, ice cream on his tongue and popcorn scattering like laughter. He had been unaware of the moment and all too knowing, caught up in the aura of a boy he’d known for years with constantly messy hair and a sharp gaze, grin wide, and he’d stepped close. Popcorn crunched and Izar tasted like soda for a single instant.

“It’s okay,” he murmurs, the air heavy and all-consuming. His breath skims, almost cool, over Spencer’s chest. “It’s okay.”

Izar kisses Spencer, clumsy and soft. Spencer moans weakly. Izar’s knees bracket his thighs like he’s _x_ and Izar is his exponent, making him more than the unknown, solidifying something about him that hasn’t been pinned down. He’s not a solved equation or an equation at all—Spencer’s an expanding problem, not looking for a solution but just an answer, simplified. When Izar shifts down, their crotches brushing, Spencer imagines there are sparks.

The clothes on Spencer are gone more quickly than he can register because then he’s standing, bare, in his bedroom. His toes are curling and he can’t see anything and Izar brushes his hands over Spencer’s shoulders. Spencer feels naked in more ways than one.

Izar kisses him, hot and slow.

Izar smiles, silky soft and precious. Beautiful.

The sunlight dyes itself a deeper orange, painting their scene golden and tangerine and bright white.

When Izar starts moving—Spencer can't keep up. He looks up at Izar, unable to close his mouth. His chest feels so tight like there is a lack of everything and an overdose of endorphins, something that makes it hard to breathe. Izar reaches, leaning, kisses Spencer softly and Spencer gasps, a sob. Izar touches his cheek, long fingers pressing against his hairline and mumbles, “Spencer, Spencer.”

Spencer comes like he's been set on fire. Izar moans like something inside of him broke in half.

There are scents of dinner drifting up the stairs, Dad in the car to go get Liv from ballet and Calen asleep, sick with sunstroke.

Spencer knows they’ll have to move soon but Izar kisses his shoulder, his collarbone. Spencer takes Izar’s hand and curves his body closer on top of the soiled sheets.

They are coloured in shadows and red pigments reflecting off the textbook on the floor.

Izar says softly, “I love you.”

And Spencer—

There’s sweat on his face, between their bodies, and he says, “Izar...”

Izar laughs, exhausted.

The ceiling fan spins, mesmerising.

“...I love you.”

***

The first time Harry burns his wrist on the supposedly burn proof oven, he holds out his pink, burning wrist and shouts, “Lou!”

Louis stumbles in, glitter on his hands and hair a right mess. Harry smiles, tongue peeking between his teeth when he shifts so Louis can see the burn. “Look,” he says, smug. “It burned me.”

In an instant Louis has his hands on Harry’s arm, guiding him to the sink to run cold water over it. Some of the glitter drains away and Harry watches it, Louis’ firm hands keeping him still.

“Did you even wash it, right after?” Louis asks, blinking up at Harry.

Harry rolls his eyes, ignoring the question, and repeats, “It burned me, Tomlinson. You _guaranteed_ that it wouldn’t. What would that Louis say, hm? The one in the store convincing—no, coercing—me into saying yes. You said we’d make muffins and it wouldn’t even burn you, not once, and it burned _me_. What would he say?”

Snorting, Louis mirrors Harry’s eye roll and stance so both are standing with their hips to the bench even if it’s the top of Louis’ hip and the low chub of Harry’s. “That Louis,” he drones with yet another eye roll, “would say it was probably the dish you burned yourself on.”

Opening his mouth to rebut Louis’ opinion, Harry manages to say, “You—” before he remembers distinctly the ceramic dish imprinting the floral design into his wrist, almost dropping it with a yelp. He changes course, drawling, “You know what? Bugger you, Louis.”

Louis laughs, then grins lewdly and purrs, “Right here? Harry Tomlinson, how scandalous.”

Scoffing, Harry turns the water off with his burned wrist hand and brings it to Louis’ face to tap on his cheekbone. He croons lasciviously, deepening his register an octave, “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Fucking me over the counter, right here.”

“Fucking hell, Harry,” Louis says roughly, startled—he looks down like he wants to adjust himself in his pants. Harry does it for him, dimpling cheekily when Louis hisses and swats Harry’s hands away. He chuckles and Louis shoves him, declaring Harry a sodding menace.

Harry bends down to kiss him anyway, feather-light and teasing. Louis feels as soft as fine-grained sand between his toes, tastes like tea and something Harry can’t immediately pinpoint.

“What do you taste like?” he wonders aloud. His wrist pulses, a bit, but he ignores it.

Louis shrugs, throat working like he’s trying to figure it out.

“I’ll just have to kiss you again,” Harry sighs heavily, curving a hand around Louis’ hip.

Louis smirks, commenting, “Oh? Is that all you do it for?” Louis lets himself be kissed and Harry gives it a little more, sharp swipes of his tongue contrasting with gentle presses of his lips. Louis follows Harry naturally, and Harry doesn’t know what makes him shiver so he tugs Louis closer. Louis laughs into Harry’s mouth and Harry pulls back, biting his lip.

It’s almost there, at the tip of his tongue. Literally. Harry snickers at his own private joke and is hit with the answer as though it smacks into the side of his head. Scented markers. It must be the line of light blue under his chin that Harry traces now, tipping Louis’ head back.

His wrist pulses again with pain and he yanks it away from Louis to flap his hand in the air. He needs some burn cream and bandages; instead he juts out his bottom lip to pout at Louis, whose eyebrows arch to voice their suspicions.

“Kiss it better?” he jokes, presenting his wrist.

But Louis cradles his arm and kisses it so gently it feels like fairy dust, magic. Just that sensation on its own makes Harry’s eyes darken, if the way Louis’ breath catches means anything.

Calen and Olivia start arguing like they’re reading and moving from a script, so well timed that not even Harry believes it’s a coincidence. He looks up at the roof as Louis groans, shifting away from Harry’s grip. Harry’s not having it so he tugs Louis back against the bench and bites at the spot underneath Louis’ left ear. It makes Louis pause, shaking when Harry tongues at the bite softly.

Olivia shouts, “Dad!”

Louis groans, shouts back slightly raspy, “What, Olivia?”

“Calen took my book! He’s going to draw his stupid space dinosaurs on the cover!”

“No I didn’t!” Calen argues, stomping.

Harry bites again, more soothing than impact, and kisses it. Louis sighs.

Calen flies around the kitchen corner, Olivia’s book in his hand, Olivia only two steps behind him. Calen hides behind the opposite end of the counter and Olivia rolls her eyes when she sees her dads cradled together.

She pulls the fake-gag trick Harry only thought people did in films. Her nose wrinkles and she says, “Gross.”

“Yeah,” Harry agrees, hugging Louis more tightly to his chest. “Love is gross.”

“Absolutely sick,” Louis adds, eyes sparkling when he twists to kiss Harry briefly. Olivia chokes, laughing, when Calen squeals and makes a break for it. Harry’s daughter chases, moment dispersed, her laughter louder now as this time Calen shouts for Louis.

“Be free,” Harry whispers, pushing Louis out from behind the bench.

Louis goes, glitter falling from his hair and dispersing around him. _Fairy_ _dust_ , Harry thinks.

He can hear Louis stop them and start to talk about reasonable voice levels inside. He has to bite his cheek to stop from grinning too hard. A cough escapes, too much like a laugh to really be disguised.

“Don’t burn yourself!” Louis shouts from the other room, smarmy grin so evident that Harry shakes his head, laughing. Louis ducks around the kitchen corner to blow Harry a kiss. “You’re an arse, Harry.”

“Love you too, Lou,” Harry smiles, teeth curving over his bottom lip.

“Yeah, yeah,” Louis expresses, light, “heard it all before.” He waves a hand flippantly.

Fairy dust.

(The vacuum cleaner gets full of glitter and Harry, astounded at the bins, remarks out loud, “How did we get so much?” Louis, inside, yells, “DIY.”)

***

The first time Louis feels properly offended in his own home, Harry’s gone off for a week to help make another film for his last book about the 1960’s transgirl called _Fawn_ , a play on the protagonist’s name and her bumbling, awkward emergence into the LGBTQ+ world. Last Louis had heard the director was trying to incorporate more of the mafia from the love interest’s point of view earlier on and Harry was adamant it’s supposed to be subtle until Faun is kidnapped.

Louis has been in charge of making dinner. Because his go-to meal is chicken parma, they have it the first night Harry’s gone and the second night too, with leftovers and fresh salad. The third night Louis makes beans on toast, and Spencer makes a little noise that he wants chicken and so parma without ham is a great idea, mash rather than salad on night four. Day five Olivia makes beef stir fry when Louis has to stay late at practice with Calen.

It’s four thirty in the afternoon, day six. Louis’ kids are sitting at the dining table all doing homework or assignments or studying (Calen, Olivia, Spencer). He’s rummaging in the pantry for a snack and considering just going to the fridge and grabbing some yoghurt when Calen puts down his pencil.

“Dad, what are we having for dinner?” he asks, kicking his feet against the legs of his chair.

Louis pauses in his rummaging, turning out of the pantry to chew his lip. “Well, we could have—”

Calen interrupts, stilling his legs, “Can we please not have chicken parma.”

Olivia, typing a book essay, rips off her headphones and starts wheezing immediately like she’s got something stuck in her throat. They soon turn into wheezes with cackles and Louis feels a little less worried, but instantly insulted.

“What?” he asks quickly. “Why not? Do you hate it or something?” Louis blinks, a little bewildered when Calen joins in Olivia’s laughter. “I know I’m not your pa but please, I thought it was good. Pa thinks it’s good.”

Spencer looks up from his phone, probably talking to his boyfriend. He snorts and tries to reassure Louis, “It’s good, Dad, but like, we’ve had it three times already. In a week.”

“Less than,” Olivia squeezes out, wiping away tears.

“Shit,” Louis swears, looking down at the table. He shakes his head and says, “I didn’t even realise. It’s just, it’s my go-to. It’s the only thing Pa’s taught me to cook that’s stuck.”

He almost starts the hand movements but all of his children start groaning, even _Calen_ who Louis had hoped wouldn’t have had enough years with the movements and parma to actually groan about it.

“We know Dad, we know.”

Queue a family trip to the shops. Louis gets left behind as Olivia pushes the trolley and Spencer leads them down the aisles, Calen jumping along and slowing to dance to the music playing sometimes. Louis actually loses them and meets them at the checkout like magic, Spencer loading about forty boxes of coloured chicken nuggets, puzzle chicken nuggets, oven chips (potato and sweet potato), spring rolls (?) and mini pizzas.

Thinking of their health and wellbeing, Louis bursts out with, “Vegetables!”

Calen, small, almost ten year old Calen, rolls his eyes at Louis and says, “Dad.”

Fuck it, Louis thinks. They can have their puzzle nuggets (nuggets with pictures printed on them to match into a puzzle while they heat up) and spring rolls. He doesn’t even care.

(Harry, later, sends him a screenshot of a photo from Olivia of their large platter and then a confused frog face emoji. Louis types _The burdens wanted unhealth_ and Harry calls him to laugh. Louis falls asleep talking to Harry and when he wakes up alone, his phone is still alive and showing a video of Harry snoring from a very low angle. After disconnecting, Louis sends him a selfie of his sleepy eyes and tired smile, face unshaven and hair going grey. Harry comes home two days later and kisses the breath from Louis’ lungs.

Then he says, “Lou, you should make parma for tea.”

All throughout the house there are groans.)

***

The first time Olivia feels free, she’s seventeen.

She’s been given a solo.

Bella, the main ballet teacher, insists that Olivia is ready.

She says, “Raymonda, Act Three, Variation Four—you will learn this for our concert in November. I have ultimate trust in you, Olivia. You will do brilliantly. The choreography I have in my mind will suit to you like a second skin and when you perform the audience will be nothing but stars shining for you.”

All the other girls in their leotards and loose, tiny skirts clap and smile at Olivia. The younger ones are more excited for her, while some her own age are jealous—for their end of year concert there is only one soloist from each age group, making it an honour.

Leo, the man who pieces together their world of dance in timing and steps, soothing Bella’s abrupt ideas and notions to an achievable, beautiful vision. Leo smiles at Olivia, white shirt and black tights making him look elegant and strong—Olivia knows many of the girls fawn over him, though he’s said he’s twenty-three and is out of their grasps. He bows, grinning now as he sweeps an arm in front of his body and offers his hand to her.

“Bella and I are teaching you this one, Liv,” he tells her while she takes a step forward.

Olivia snorts but allows his hand to curve around hers. Leo spins her suddenly and it is the years of dance that stop her from falling, that allow her body to feel graceful in clumsy movement of unexpectedness and make her feel alive. Olivia blinks when she’s settled and rolls her eyes at Leo’s laughter. Bella tuts and hands Olivia a pair of pointe shoes.

Olivia’s eyes go wide and she begins to protest, “Bella, no, I.”

Dad and Pa have enough money that a pair of pointe shoes is not a problem for her.

Bella shakes her head, dark hair short to Olivia’s long, silky waves. Her warm eyes crease. “These are not a matter of new and old, Olivia. These are not for you to wear,” Bella announces, turning in a way that allows her next speech to be heard by everyone in the studio. “These pointe shoes are to be a symbol. My mother wore these when she danced in the New York Ballet and told me that my dreams were never as unreachable as the stars. My mother gave these to me and asked if I was ready to dream.”

Her smile morphs, delight and seriousness creating a truly unique expression with her olive skin. Bella asks them all, eyes trained on Olivia, “Are you ready to dream?”

Olivia breathes out, “Yes.”

Bella leans close. “Be ready for a dream, Olivia. Be ready to become the dream.”

***

The first time Spencer leaves home, he’s moving into university dorms three hours away.

Spencer has been telling everyone who asks that he’s going into obstetrics and gynaecology. He struggled for years with _moles_ and breezed through genetics, realised ancient history is less about dates and more about evidence, let himself cry about polynomials and calculus but glow for days when his English teacher gave him a 16 out of 20 for his—albeit, not great, assisted by Pa—short narrative.

And now, at nineteen years old, he’s leaving his family and heading out into the world to experience another piece of it.

Pa, predictably, cries. Dad, predictably, tries to cry behind his sunglasses before he tucks them into Pa’s shirt and hugs Spencer. Olivia cries openly and laughs it off, hugging Spencer loosely and saying she loves him. Spencer bends for Calen and he hugs the hardest, not crying but smiling so brightly.

It’s mostly for show. Spencer will be down almost every other weekend and technology is so advanced he might as well be there anyway.

Still. When Pa wraps his dad arms around him and says gruffly, “We’re always here when you need us, Spencer.” When he says that and Dad adds, “We’re so proud of you, Spen.”

Spencer hears the _when_ not ‘if’ and the nickname Spen makes him think of his childhood.

He’s grateful, so hugely fucking grateful, that his parents are his parents and his siblings are his siblings and even Peaches, aged and slinking, is his Peaches—he held Peaches until she squirmed out of his arms, then later he was watching telly and she touched him so softly with her paw like she knew he was leaving.

The last thing he sees when they drive away is Calen, grinning, and Olivia clicking her fingers like guns at him.

 _Boom_ , he thinks.

***

The first time they meet Bronte she’s blushing and Louis’ smile is wide. Harry almost hugs her before Louis nudges his arm and somehow this is a habit of theirs now, since Spencer left and whenever he comes home they hug him at the door. Olivia nearly tumbles down the stairs in her haste to get to the doors before her fathers do, and is occupied with picking her skinny-jean, black shirt-thing clad-self up off the ground while they answer the door.

Bronte has caramel-coloured skin with young brown eyes and rosy cheeks. Her hair is fish-tailed to the left side, wearing a cream lace dress with a plum winter coat, looking the picture of youth. Louis’ already wide smile goes impossibly wider and he’s so going to congratulate his daughter when Bronte’s gone home.

“Hi?” she says sort of shyly and they love her.

“Hello, love. Come in. I’m Louis and this is my husband, Harry. Don’t be surprised if I call him angel at any point. Olivia’s…well, I don’t know what she’s doing but there isn't any point in you waiting in the cold,” Louis says kindly, and Harry says his own greeting before pecking Louis’ lips quickly and flitting off to check on dinner. Louis smiles at Bronte as though his husband is the greatest, and the way she smiles back says she knows.

Calen is out at Gee’s place, so there are no hassles from him, and Bronte seems to settle in rather quickly. Louis sits her down in the living room and nearly begins talking to her but Olivia comes in instead. She sits next to her, folding her legs up on the sofa and sliding her hand to take Bronte’s. Bronte smiles at Olivia, warm and soft; Louis decides the awkward conversations can wait until dinner.

So, Louis joins his husband in the kitchen, slipping his arms under the frilly pink apron Harry wears because he can and lets his chin drop onto Harry’s shoulder (a feat completed with Louis on his tip toes). Harry makes a sound but continues stirring, adding and tasting—sometimes letting Louis taste. Harry doesn’t move until he has to get the spaghetti from the pantry, and Louis stays in place and waddles them to the pasta. Harry laughs and it’s love in a sound. Bronte laughs so hard she cries and it’s a new type of love.

Olivia kisses her goodnight and the sounds that transfer into Bronte’s mouth are a different kind altogether.

***                                                                                                                                                

The first time Olivia brings home a _boyfriend_ is an entirely different experience. She’s almost eighteen and has already been through what she details is the heartbreak of the century; Bronte told her Olivia’s dancing took up a lot of time and because she was needy, it didn’t work well for her. Olivia and Taj had gone to a movie and then Harry didn’t sleep when he heard her crying.

Olivia starts dropping hints that she has a boyfriend two days before she comes out and tells them. It’s supposed to ease them into it, but really the hints make Harry roll his eyes because the hickey on her neck isn't exactly as subtle as she’s trying to be.

The conversation goes like this: “His name is Tom, and he’s—”

“Liv, maybe you shouldn’t,” Harry suggests quietly and Olivia’s eyes do backflips with how hard she rolls her eyes before turning her head toward the phone in her lap.

Louis looks worried more than anything. “Liv, how long have you been together? A long time?”

“We’ve only been dating for three weeks, so not really…” she mumbles, though Louis hears it clearly and he doesn’t know how to react accordingly. When he met Bronte, Louis was really excited for Olivia; now that he knows Olivia has a boyfriend, he wants to be really excited to meet him too. Half of him really feels like that’s the path he should take, but the other half says Tom has probably likely performs sacrifices to Satan while his parents go to church.

Harry talks to Louis and Louis says it’s probably just emotions brought up because she came out as gay to them years before. Harry reminds Louis just because she said something in the past doesn’t make it true now, he’s just not sure Louis listens.

So, it’s a bit of a surprise when Louis says, a day later, “Invite him over.”

Everyone looks surprised and Louis just shrugs because there’s no other way he’ll ever fully approve until he meets Tom.

“Now?” Olivia asks.

“Yeah, we can order in and we’ll have dinner with him.”

Harry seems confused by this, squinting at his husband then laughing when he understands, realising Louis won’t get over himself until he meets Tom. “Bring him over, Liv.”

Calen imitates Harry from the doorway and Olivia laughs at his impression. Harry turns to catch Calen but he darts around the corner, heading to his bedroom and leaving a trail of laughter. Harry follows, clomping, and tickles Calen until he’s coughing from laughing so much.

Half an hour later Olivia comes back downstairs wearing a shirt Louis used to wear before he decided Olivia would make it look better. Olivia had cut off the sleeves, stretched the arm holes and deepened the neck-line to make it a tank top and she looks wonderful, the tank tucked into a pleated navy skirt.

Tom knocks on the door and Louis blinks. Harry stands up and goes to answer the door before Louis can and say something and reinforce his expectations of this being a bad night.

“Hi, Tom, is it? Come in, we’re excited to meet you,” Harry smiles, and he sees Tom’s light hair and sea-blue eyes, a gentle grin in response. Harry thinks he might like him.

Louis doesn’t _not_ like Tom, but he can’t see himself liking him anytime soon. Tom eats with his mouth closed and speaks precisely with his mouth clear, head high. It’s obvious he’s at least a little intimidated meeting them and chatting to them throughout dinner, though Harry tries his hardest to be politely warm so he feels more comfortable. Tom even talks to Calen about football and books, scoring points with all of them for bringing Cal out in the company of a stranger.

They learn Tom’s parents had divorced when he was young, he lives with his mum who works in finance, and he’s a year younger than Olivia having turned seventeen in April.

It makes Louis feel a little odd when he thinks about leaving Olivia and Tom alone together which is a bit too much of a double standard considering he had no qualms about leaving Bronte and her alone. So he pushes himself through it and tells the group he’s going to wash the dishes. Harry’s about to get up to help him but Olivia invites herself to wash up with him because she wants to know what he thinks about Tom, dragging Calen by the wrist to help them.

Olivia and Calen walk past Louis with a few plates while Louis gathers his and Harry’s, and their glasses. Louis flicks a look to his husband, who chews the inside of his cheek and then smiles at Tom. “Do you have a job, Tom?”

“Hmm?” Tom asks, eyebrows knitting together. It is clear he’d been watching the sway of Olivia’s hips as she walked to the kitchen. Louis rolls his eyes, only so Harry can see, and brushes down to kiss his husband on the mouth.

Harry gives a gentle laugh when Louis pulls back, waiting until Louis is a few steps away before he repeats the question.

Louis doesn’t pay attention to the answer, just pushes himself through the kitchen door with his hands full. Olivia’s already got the hot water running and is pouring the dishwashing liquid into one of their double sinks as Louis slides the plates and glasses carefully on the bench. A fork decides to slide off just as everything is almost down, making Louis drop everything else onto the bench in a rather cluttered manner and jumps back so as to avoid being hit by the fork.

It lands on the ground with a clatter. Calen laughs.

 

When Tom goes home it’s with the knowledge that Olivia’s family may be odd and Louis might be a little hard to get comfortable to talk to, but it’s startling obvious they love their daughter and it’s also startling obvious how much Tom doesn’t think he could.

***

The first time Harry remembers a moment he thought he’d never forget, the memory is when he, Louis, Olivia, Spencer and Calen first left the house together.

Harry’s tucked into bed, Louis asleep with his book open on his lap and his glasses on. Louis’ lamp is still on and Harry’s is off, emphasizing the amount of light filling their bedroom. Harry looks at a mark on the wall from when Spencer chased Olivia into the room and she knocked into Calen’s crib, pushing it into the wall and scratching away some of the plaster. Harry can hear Calen’s cries like he’s right there and not in his own room, all grown up.

The sense of déjà vu is so intense, from Louis’ smudged glasses, the echo of light barely reaching that mark, to the headache pushing at his temples.

 

 

_Harry wakes up at five to Calen crying, six weeks old and the loudest of their bunch._

_He stumbles out of bed, letting Louis sleep, and tries to coddle Calen to soothe him. Calen, small and screaming, doesn’t let up and Harry yawns, hugging him close and mumbling. Harry puts his hand on the pad for a bit of light and sets Calen down on his change table gently, careful to keep him wrapped warm and safe as he reaches for a nappy._

_Calen rolls his head to the side briefly, quiet as his attention catches on the light pad. Harry breathes out and cleans_ _Calen, patting him with lavender-scented powder and securing the wings firmly. That’s all it takes for the baby boy to get distracted again and there is a split second of Calen’s eyes, wide awake and gleaning even in such a low light, catching Harry’s and he gurgles. Then his face is scrunching in that typical baby face, eyes into slits, nose scrunched up and mouth open._

_Harry smooths the tears from his cheeks and shrugs his shoulders, gearing himself for the long run—this cry is Calen’s ‘not going back to sleep for hours because I’m tired’ cry. He cradles Calen properly and heads downstairs._

_Harry doesn’t get five steps outside his door before his older baby comes trotting down the stairs. Olivia has her hands clamped over her ears._

_“What are you doing up, baby?” Harry asks as quietly as he can with his youngest son sobbing in his arms._

_Olivia shakes her head—she didn’t hear. She takes her hands off her ears and Harry repeats himself, concerned. She heaves this great, huge sigh and tells him, “I can’t do sleep.”_

_He looks closer; Olivia has purple under her eyes like she scrubbed too hard and bruised in blotches of exhaustion. Her hair is messy, framing her face in tangles and bits out of place, and her slippers are on the wrong feet._

_Harry laughs, all breath, and inhales deeply. “Cal too.”_

_Olivia looks confused, her soft cheeks curving into her confused face where one side of her mouth lifts up, she tilts her head and purses her lips with her eyes squinting. Harry rephrases, shifting Calen in his arms so the baby boy leans against his shoulder and Harry can rub his back. “Calen can’t do sleep either, Livvy.”_

_She nods and mumbles up at him, “I want.”_

_A look at the clock on the wall, roman numerals glowing like they have something important to say—it’s fifteen minutes past five. As the responsible father of three kids, one of who can’t sleep and another crying steadily in his ear, Harry decides to take them on a drive._

_He sends Olivia to get a blanket and steps back into his room to slip into some sneakers. Setting Calen down on the other side of Louis so he’s safely snuggled, still crying but gently._

_Moaning dismally, Louis rasps, “Calen, buddy, shhh.”_

_Harry snorts and swings the baby bag over his body, bending down to kiss Louis’ sleep slack mouth. Louis kisses him again, chaste and dry, and snuggles Calen to his chest when Harry tries to lift him up. “You can’t take my baby,” Louis murmurs. “I love him and he is mine.”_

_“Babe, us and Olivia were going for a drive because they can’t sleep.”_

_Louis blinks his eyes wide and yawns at the same time Calen does._

_“Okay,” Louis says around another yawn. “Okay, so we need to wake Spenny then.”_

_“You know he hates when you call him that.”_

_“He’s only eight, he can’t hate it that much. Least we’re not calling him Spaceboy Spencer or summat, Styles.”_

_Harry looks at all Louis’ tattoos, his tan arms wrapped around Calen._

_“It’s Tomlinson, Lou. It’s been Tomlinson since 2018.”_

_Louis seems dumbfounded—startled and in love. “Oh. Right. I don’t know how I forgot. Harry Tomlinson. My husband.”_

_Harry shakes his head, unable to resist a snicker. “I’ll get him up, you get dressed.”_

_Spencer’s pliable and lets himself be herded into the car without fuss, hair in tufts like Louis’ when it’s cut short. Olivia snuggles in beside him, resting her head on Calen’s car seat. The three paint the kind of scene Harry wants to see for the rest of his life. People he loves, comfortable, together._

_Louis climbs into the passenger seat, scruffy with his eyes half closed and a blanket wrapped around him. He stifles a yawn, struggles to get the seatbelt around his blanket and seems too smug for getting the buckle in. He catches Harry watching him grins sleepily. The cool crisp air going into Harry’s lungs does nothing to help the flood of warmth in his chest when Louis does that, that buttery soft smile no one else gets to see, lazy movements against the dream-like mystery of the neighbourhood at night._

_“Let us depart,” Louis states like they’re in an old-timey novel leaving afternoon tea to go to sign up for the war._

_There is no war and there are no biscuits in their bellies—only three children in the back of a car and their parents awake and willing to risk the world for them._

_Harry chuckles and licks his lips, teeth tucking in his bottom lip. He looks back at Calen who blinks and tilts his head so it leans on his seat. “What do you think, Calen? Should we depart?”_

_Calen yawns. He closes his eyes and makes sleepy sounds, bubbles of spit between his lips when his mouth opens into a small ‘o’._

_“Don’t doubt me, angel. I’m...I’m always... Nhh.”_

_As the only one awake, Harry reserves the right to grin like a fool. They’re all asleep before he can even put the car in drive._

_He loves them so much._

 

Harry says, “Remember when...”

Louis snores.

Oh. He forgot.

Harry laughs.

He falls asleep gazing at Louis, soft skin, darkness—silhouette barely visible and yet he’s still the brightest thing in the room.

***

The first (and only) time Olivia cries over a break up with a boy is a week later, on a Thursday night. She’s just come home from ballet, telling her parents she’s exhausted and would skip dinner before jogging upstairs to slam her door shut.

She’s in her room; she’s sobbing—not loudly enough they can hear her but enough so that when they crouch outside her door her cries can be heard easily. Harry’s about to knock but Louis knows that this is something he wants to do as a parent, tells Harry this with a kiss to the temple and opens the door after a quiet knock. Harry retreats to bake something with Calen.

Olivia’s face down on her bed, arms clutched around a pillow. When she turns to look at her father he can see she isn’t really sobbing, more weeping. It doesn’t make Louis feel any better, especially when she croaks, “Why?” in a voice cracked and tired.

Louis’ heart shatters like he imagines Liv’s must have and he’s immediately telling her to shuffle over. She does and he squirms in and it’s warm and dry except for the pillow in which his head now lies on. Olivia’s head is on his chest and her hand is in his and they're the same size.

Louis just breathes with her until her breaths are calmer and his shirt is dirty with tears and then he begins to talk. “Olivia, you probably don’t remember this but when you were four we used to play ballerinas.” Olivia huffs out what is supposed to be a laugh here.

Louis smiles faintly but continues. “It’s hard to fathom, I know. Well, you insisted we wear tiaras and one day you lost yours. There was no way we would play if you didn’t have your tiara. We looked all day and when Pa came home he helped look too, Christ, we even got Spencer looking and he wasn’t a very co-operative six year old. We spent a week looking for the bloody thing, and it was absolutely nowhere. We didn’t play once, not even when I offered you _my_ tiara. You insisted you didn’t want it, all like, _no, you look very pretty in it and I’ll feel very bad if you don’t get to have it_. Of course, Olivia, not like a fully articulate person, but you’ll have to forgive me if I’ve forgotten the original version—it was quite a traumatising time.”

Louis can feel Olivia’s smile against his chest, although tears spill onto him steadily.

“After that week you were devastated. You threw tantrums and refused to eat or go anywhere or change out of your dress. So, the day Pa and I both had off, I told you and Spencer I had to work because a coach was sick and couldn’t make practice. I went out—and I shouldn’t have—to a bridal shop and bought you a tiara. There was a sale on, I felt fucking blessed. They wrapped it up in a box all lovely, but at home you were smiling and you hadn’t done that since losing the thing.

“I asked why you were so happy; you said, ‘Because Pa said if he couldn’t find my tiara, he make me a flower crown, but we find it in the ribbons!’ I couldn’t fucking believe it. I still gave it to you, though you looked at it and fucking put it right on _my_ head. Pa emerged from the kitchen holding a proper flower crown, with sunflowers and daisies and what have you. It turns out you decided a flower crown was better than the tiara we’d stressed all week over. He started _crying_ , shit, and now we have the tiara and the crown in a box somewhere.”

Olivia’s chest heaves as she laughs her way through shaky sobs. She coughs and says thickly, “Oh my god. Really?”

Louis nods, lips tilting up, cheeks creasing and eyes crinkling. “I certainly do, Livia. The moral of that long story is that Tom wouldn’t have done any of those things for you. He wouldn’t have made you a flower crown, he wouldn’t have paid for a proper tiara, and he wouldn’t have even looked for the original one for a week. That isn't the person for you, love. You deserve better than him; you’re my sweet girl.”

Olivia huffs a laugh, but Louis watches her eyelashes flutter shut now that he’s done talking.

It’s quiet and Louis’ reminded of how much he loves Harry, and is really thankful Harry loves him, before he dozes off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> how was it?


	17. just a king and a rusty throne

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> maybe you remember right at the start when i might say 'this chapter goes hard'?
> 
> this one goes as hard as i neglected studying to write this

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it was difficult to split and add another chapter bc of me issues but it had to happen for you, my darling children, otherwise too much would have happened too quickly. so, third last chapter!!! what the fuck, we're so close to the end and i hit 100k today.
> 
> calen's name!! pronounced 'K-len' like 'cale' with an 'n' on the end, only recently realised could be pronounced 'cal-en'. read it how you want tho, sorry ppl.
> 
> thanks for being here, title from 'always' by p!atd. im off to go study ancient for tmrw's exam, wish me luck lmao

The first time Calen really forms a memory of the city at night, he’s nearly twelve.

Dad’s driving, Pa in the passenger seat, Calen behind Dad and Olivia next to him, the space between them. They’d gone in for dinner with Aunty Gem, Uncle Kyle and Marie. Marie’s a dancer as well, seventeen and a super awesome cousin. She teaches Calen her hip-hop moves even in the nice restaurant where everyone can see, laughing when he imitates her and she mentions he’s about as good as the five year olds. Marie and Olivia talk dance, school and people they’ve dated or have crushes on, while Marie and Calen talk about their friends or movies they’ve seen.

Most importantly about Marie, Calen thinks, is that she introduces him to poetry.

In the car, now, Calen remembers her recommendation for a start—a book, a novel.

 _In the Skin of a Lion._ Marie had insisted the writer, some guy with an interesting last name (and by interesting he means hard to remember), blended typical novel writing with poetic style. She told him to wait to read it, until he was older and could understand it more thoroughly, but mentioned one part that he can’t get over.

_“Let me now re-emphasize the extreme looseness of the structure of all objects.”_

Calen keeps thinking about it. The world, loose.

He opens his mouth to express this, but what comes out is, “Isn’t it weird how the earth is a circle and not a square?”

Olivia instantly corrects, “Sphere,” head not turning away from the window.

“What?” Dad says, leaning forward to tap the sound down.

“The world,” Pa frowns, considering.

Calen shakes his head and reaches for the handle above his door to hold. “No, I meant—ugh. Isn’t it weird that the earth is a circle, not a square?”

Pa twists in his seat, eyebrows furrowed momentarily before he catches sight of his son and something clicks, features relaxing. “Oh, no, I think he’s talking about these handle things.”

Everyone turns to him, asking at different times, “What?”

He holds up his hands, hair shadowing his face. Calen scoffs but ends up laughing. He repeats what he’s said twice now and Olivia laughs too, hearing it the way she did the first time but not correcting him again. They all think about his question.

In a smooth movement, Dad turns the wheel and they’re going around a bend in the stretch of road. Calen glances out the window, distracted by the pretty lights and the way everything seems like a movie, enhanced and glowing.

Pa chuckles to himself and says, “Hey, we’re going around the world now.”

Dad’s eye roll is almost palpable but Olivia laughs so Calen joins her.

Around and around the world they go.

A split, forgotten second in the memory later: Calen doesn’t know if he wants the bend to stop curving.

***

The first time Spencer meets his birth mother it’s on Christmas break.

She’s agreed to let him come to her house for lunch, and her name’s Diana.

Spencer is wearing black jeans that cling to his legs and a borrowed sweater from Dad’s too large collection (most of which are too big and originally Pa). He’s nervous but he’s excited, and his dads wished him luck before he left. Izar—going by Izar after he heard the way it sounded moaned from Spencer’s mouth—has driven him to the house in Spencer’s car, the one he got for his seventeenth birthday, a hand curved around Spencer’s thigh to stop it from twitching.

Diana’s house is small. It’s small and Spencer’s breath catches at the sight of it.

He steps out of the car after Izar leans over to kiss him, ‘accidentally’ knocking the button to open the door as he leans back. Izar wishes him luck, pulling away from the curb so Spencer doesn’t have an alternative option. Of course he’s likely only circling a few roads to end up back here, ready if Spencer needs to leave.

Spencer sighs, exasperated. He waits a moment before strolling up the path and knocking on the door. It’s daunting, but it’s like ripping a bandaid off. Right?

He only has a second and then a woman is opening the door with a smile on her face, however frazzled it may be. She has blonde hair in a short cut, is wearing a navy and orange floral dress and looks eerily similar to what he sees in the mirror.

Spencer knows it’s her, the woman who gave birth to him, who allowed him to have a life even if it wasn’t her who gave him one. There are tears in his eyes and his heart is thumping as if he’s been running a race to get here.

Diana grins, watery but so very, very happy. “What’s the name they decided on, then?”

“Spencer,” he says, and that’s all he can say.

Diana licks her lips and wipes away her tears. “They spent the time I was there staring at you, then when I left I asked what they’d called you and someone said they were still bickering over it. Then, after, no one would tell me, said it would be bad for me, and I hadn’t the heart to look in case it was something funny.”

Spencer nods, laughs quietly, because that definitely sounds like his parents. “Hi.”

“Oh, yes, whoops. Hi, hello, I’m Diana, but I think you already know. Come in, please. You like tea, Spencer?”

“I do,” he responds, shuffling in after her and discarding his shoes next to the pile.

She laughs. “You’re British, of course you do.”

There’s a second voice, a voice not Diana’s that says, “Mum? S’that him?”

A third voice. “’Course it is, you twat. Who else would it be? Christ you're thick, Tahlia.”

Diana shouts ahead of him, “Todd, Tahlia, be nice or go to your rooms!”

Spencer’s too busy staring at the walls to notice. The walls are filled with photographs. The house is dimly lit, musty, and smells like an arrangement of spices and caramel. He spots a soy block melting on a stand in the entrance, with a tea light candle hovering inside the cave-like space of the oil burner.

The stand is the only thing in the entrance, and there’s a hall runner leading to a hallway of doors. Diana walks past these doors, saying, “Sorry I didn’t say anything, but my kids are here. My other kids. I asked them to leave, but they said they wouldn’t go anywhere in this shitty weather.”

Spencer hums a response, listening to muted chatter and the crackling of a fire.

Overall, it goes okay. Really, it can't go any better. Her children are fine, a little pushy but kind—she’s actually very like Louis it’s sort of peculiar, though maybe that’s just Spencer projecting his father onto her. Diana makes good tea, has a nice selection of biscuits, whatever. It doesn’t matter. They speak about Spencer’s life up to this point, his future plans—she asks about partners and he brushes it off because Izar is outside and he feels personal, only Spencer’s. The two discuss Diana’s life before Spencer and after him, her kids, her family, aspirations.

When he leaves, he makes promises to come back soon, and he will, but not for a while.

***

The first time they meet Olivia’s girlfriend is eight months after Tom and while they’re getting ice cream after Calen’s soccer game. She has white hair fading into lavender into a November blue and ending with a soft teal, almost turquoise. Louis smiles genuinely upon meeting her. She has a lip piercing, tattoos spreading on her left arm and is smiling as widely as she can. Her shirt has loose sleeves and says ‘fuck you’ in pink cursive. She's all these pieces rolled into one and her name is Monique.

Olivia spots her as they slide into a booth and Harry goes to get their ice creams. Olivia ditches her father to go to the girl. She pokes her arm and Monique turns around, confused until she sees Olivia and then her smile is blinding. Monique moves her head forward so their lips touch and Louis’ eyes are wide and he thinks surely it’s not possible. Monique has brown lipstick on and it shades Olivia’s mouth with colour.

Olivia pulls away and tugs on Monique’s arm, dragging her over to the table Louis’ sat at, Calen across from him with his head in a book.

“Hi, sir,” Monique greets kindly. Harry slides back into the booth, four ice creams in a holder that he sets down, putting his head on Louis’ shoulder, so Monique says, “Sirs then, yeah?”

Louis laughs and shakes his head. “Louis.”

“’m Harry,” Harry adds, “you are?

She tilts her head, mouth quirking at Olivia, who grabs her hand. “Dad, Dad, this is my girlfriend Monique. We’ve been dating for about a month.”

“A month and twenty four days,” Monique says with another grin.

Harry grins too, big and sweet and exhilarated. Louis’ eyes crinkle and he knows Monique’s going to be here for a while.

***

The first time Harry catches Monique sneaking out, he finds her on the stairs.

He hears some creaking and with a kiss to Louis’ arm, he slips out of his hold and fumbles through the house trying to find the source. It’s only 6 a.m., so he’s sleepy and his eyes are a bit blurry, and it takes him a second to work out who it is on the stairs. The form is too feminine to be Calen, the hair too mussed to be Olivia’s.

“Monique?”

Monique blushes in the darkness. She jams one of Olivia’s beanies on her head, a pair of shoes in her other hand. “Um, yeah. Hi?”

Harry blinks and waits for his eyes to focus before he laughs. Monique looks startled, because Louis, Olivia and Calen could wake up, but they’re all relatively deep sleepers. Harry knows this from the many times he’s woken up to get some water and cried out as his foot or knee or elbow collided with a piece of furniture or a wall and nothing had happened.

“All right. What are you here for, then?” he asks, rolling his shoulders. Something cracks.

She cringes and Harry waits. He supposes she doesn’t want to tell him, just like he never wanted to tell his mother why Louis had stayed the night (she always knew, just like Harry does now. He thinks it must be a parent thing). Monique relaxes a little and sits down on the stairs with her shoes plopping next to her. “Liv wanted me to sleep over?”

Harry nods and accepts it because he isn't going to get the full truth—does he really want to anyway? He waddles up the white carpeted stairs and sits closest to the wooden banister, next to his daughter’s girlfriend. “Okay. Why’re you sneaking out, though?”

Monique shrugs. “They do it on the movies,” she says, and it makes Harry giggle into his hand. She grins as a response then corrects herself, “No, I just wasn’t sure if you and Lou’d be comfortable knowing I spent the night in the same bed as Liv.”

Harry puts his arm around her and she snuggles into the warmth. They’re very close, the two of them, and Harry thinks this is what he receives in return for not being allowed to play ballerinas with Olivia and Louis per Olivia’s command. “Babe, you just called him Lou.”

She blinks because she hadn’t even noticed. “Oh.”

“You’re both legal, anyway, and as long as you’re safe...”

Monique blushes again and doesn’t respond.

After a moment, Harry says, “Have you got school today?”

“No, thank god.”

Seventeen to Olivia’s eighteen, both birthdays unhad, Monique still attends college and has over the past months come by in the afternoons to do her homework. Olivia, his sweet baby girl all grown, has declined a few universities and deferred two—just in case—for 2041, taking a year to work and intern with her dance studio before beginning to complete a teacher education program and studying dance education. Until then, Harry’s just glad he has her at home.

He misses Spencer too much. Their first baby, their learning experience, through ups and downs and every moment. Harry doesn’t know how empty the house might feel when Calen is the only baby left.

He blinks back into the moment with Monique, trying to recall where the conversation had ended.

“Want to come to the beach?”

She squints. “Why?”

Harry licks his lips. His voice loses its morning rasp when he clears his throat. “We haven’t been to the beach in ages and Calen’s ill, and Spencer and his boyfriend head back tomorrow so Louis wanted to take us to the beach, like a family.  Have you met Izar, actually?”

“I’ve not. He nice?”

Harry beams. “You’ll like him.” Izar was good for Spencer when they were boys and is good for him now as two adults bumping their way through the world.

Harry sends her back to Olivia, going to his own bed to find Louis squinting blearily in the darkness. “Haz? Where th’ fuck did you go for s’ long?”

“Right here, don’t get your knickers in a twist, princess,” he jokes, sliding under the sheets. For that Louis bites his collarbone, twisting suddenly until he has Harry’s wrists pinned above his head. Louis’ eyes are dark, pupils blown as he kisses the bite, grazing his teeth down over Harry’s nipple in a way that has him shuddering.

 

Later, they do all go to the beach.

 _This_ is what family is; the way Monique and Spencer splash in the water, screaming at how fresh (freezing) it is yet still ducking under the waves; the way Calen wraps himself in a blanket on a towel, scribbling in his leather-bound notebook and leaning over to share the words with Harry; when Olivia’s sunhat blows off his head, making him scramble for it as Louis guffaws; Olivia and Izar having sandcastle building races, Calen as judge and Izar claiming foul play from Spencer who drapes himself over Izar’s back and nips his neck.

The way Louis smiles as he snaps each precious moment with an old-fashioned Polaroid, fanning the prints with Harry kissing the spot between his shoulder blades.

At least, it’s what their family is.

***

The first time Harry finds himself at a loss with comforting one of his children is over the phone to Spencer.

If Spencer was next to him he could hug him tight until Spencer pulled back, shaky but better. If Spencer was next to him Harry could take his hand, squeeze it comfortingly and deliver the news as a solid, stable figure in his life. If Spencer was next to him, he could prepare the tissues and ease the ache with a soft touch.

Instead Harry has to see Spencer crying where he can’t reach out and hold him, has to hear the choked gasp so clearly through the speaker and just watch Spencer use one hand to scrub at his tears. Spencer shakes his head, muffled sounds leaking from behind his hand and he pulls it away, laughing softly, self-deprecating.

“Sorry,” he apologises, thick. “Sorry, I just... I was going to visit, and I didn’t, and... What fucking luck.”

This display is killing Harry, twinges of pain niggling into his chest as Spencer blames himself for missing Peaches’ last days. The loss for words is obvious in the silence, Harry floundering as his own loss hits him  as though he hadn’t cried in the vet office when the woman told them it would be best to put her down. His eyes are watering and he takes a shuddery breath, trying to control himself, when Spencer does the same thing.

“I just can’t believe she’s gone,” Spencer mumbles.

“Us too, Spencer,” Harry tells him. Calen had been confused when Peaches didn’t come home alive and Olivia went to her room to cry while Harry and Louis dug a hole in the back garden by the orchards. She and Cal made a cross, decorated with glitter on glitter glue, Spencer’s old solar system stickers and even, aptly, a felt appropriation of the peach emoji in a set that Harry got a long time ago when emoji’s were in their prime. Louis was given the honour of writing her name in the centre of the wooden plank; red eyes and sniffling nose, they all said goodbye.

Then Louis looked at Harry and said, “Spence.”

Now Louis curls around Harry, nodding at Spencer and kissing away Harry’s tears. Louis says with a small smile, “Come down this weekend, Spen.”

Spencer wipes his face and his mouth twitches into a light semblance of a smile. “Okay.”

***

The first time Olivia goes to a party with Monique she gets absolutely, completely, horrifically plastered _._

Olivia started the night with perfect makeup, straight hair tumbling down her back, thickly heeled boots and a coherent grasp on, well, everything. Now her hair is artlessly pulled back in a confused bun, she has Monique’s red lipstick on her own lips and she’s grinning so widely it aches. Her heels are in her hand because after the first hour her feet started to throb and what is the point in shoes if they hurt? Monique, ever stuck in the late 2010’s, whispers, _Olivia, it’s for the aesthetic_.

Olivia’s laughing, jumping up and down to the beat of a popular song blaring loudly throughout Xander’s house. Xander is a boy from Monique’s school who had invited them Monique and her plus one. Monique, who’s holding Olivia’s free hand, bounces along and loves that they’re here together.

Monique grins and Olivia beams back at her. Their lips press together, red against orange, blurring into each other. Olivia laughs into her girlfriend’s mouth. Monique laughs back because she’s drunk too and the atmosphere is alive, the pulse of movement of everyone dancing, drums the echoing heartbeat.

Monique pulls back to shout, “Liv, I’ll be back in a minute! I’m going to go get another drink for us!”

“Okay, doll! Love you!”

Monique nods and begins weaving through the crowds of people.

Xander slides in front of Olivia and they start shimmying into each other. Xander’s straightened hair is sweaty and his limbs are too long but he knows that to do with them, moving to the music like he understands the beat. Olivia feels the music in her bones, dances too much to not embrace it and become it. Xander must have something, _do_ something for him to move so well.

He sees her watching him and leans down. “Drums.”

 _Oh_.

She nods, leaning up, “Dancer! I’m ballet!”

Xander totally accepts this, not questioning the phrasing. The song changes to something more indie and Xander kisses Olivia’s cheek sloppily, shouting over the sound, “I want to see you dance!”

Olivia feels herself tear up and she drags him over to a quiet corner. She looks up at him and wipes at her face, remembering makeup instinctively. Xander looks solemn as Olivia opens her mouth. “Xander, Xander, I will dance right now for you. I can. I can—I’m so good your socks won’t, like, they won’t exist.”

“But,” Xander replies, looking overwhelmed as his gaze jumps from Olivia to the floor. “I fucking love these socks. I want, them...”

Olivia nods seriously, taking his hands. “You can keep your socks. I won’t steal them.”

“Sock thief!”

He stumbles out of reach into a boy’s arms, who must recognise him and grins, waving at Olivia. Olivia clutches her chest, feeling like her baby has just been taken from her, but the movement makes her wonder where her shoes have gone. Hey own eyes expand and she reaches an arm for the grinning boy.

“My shoes...” she tells him desperately.

Arms full of Xander, the boy shrugs and slurs around his smile, “He’s so pretty.”

Olivia looks around to see if Monique has come back yet, wondering if maybe Monique has her shoes, but she appears to have not so Olivia goes into the kitchen instead. She pats the boy on the head and stumbles to the kitchen, blinking with too much emphasis after a girl seems like vapour. Monique catches her heading out of the kitchen with two bottles of water curled between her fingers. Olivia takes one gratefully, suddenly parched, and a little spills but she swallows before she speaks, which is an accomplishment. She hooks her arms around Monique’s neck and whispers loudly, “You and me forever, babycakes.”

Monique grins loosely, carefree and open. She kisses Olivia’s nose playfully, making Olivia giggle, and whispers back, “Forever and then some, you mean, adultcakes.”

Olivia snorts so hard that it actually hurts and she pouts until Monique cups her jaw and kisses her, open-mouthed and slack. Olivia’s too drunk to know the flavours in Monique’s mouth but she curls her tongue and tastes them anyway.

Before it makes Olivia fall over, dizzy with love and affection, Monique asks breathlessly, “Liv, where are your shoes?”

All Olivia does is spin her around to press a kiss to her neck and march them from the kitchen entrance.

 

 

When they get home at three a.m., fumbling and giggling to Olivia’s room, falling up the stairs a few times, Louis sighs from the kitchen and pours his tea down the drain. He’s a bit upset they stayed out so late when they said to be back at one—more for Monique’s sake than Olivia’s, but that neither here nor there at this point. Right now, though, Louis doesn’t care very much. He’s more just tired that he had to wait up rather than join his husband in bed, and that the girls will need to be ushered into a bathroom when they wake up otherwise they’ll likely ruin the sheets.

Louis collapses in bed next to Harry and sets an alarm to make sure they’re awake to help the two girls, even if all he can think about is sleeping the day away. Harry’s snoring lightly which makes Louis snort, huffing a little breath as he shuts his eyes and breathes. Harry, in his sleep, pulls Louis close to his body and tucks a thigh between Louis’ legs. Sighing comfortably, Louis shifts even closer still and passes out soon after.

***

The first poem Calen writes is not the greatest.

It’s typical, cliché and...awkward. Calen, later, will read it and cringe, laughing at himself.  

The first time he writes a good poem, one he’s proud of, he’s sixteen.

The first one was called ‘The Doll’ and included stanzas such as:

_I sit there smiling_

_As pretty as a doll_

_The world moves without me_

_And life takes its toll_

and,

_Death is the only one_

_To ease the pain_

_Dark is my only love_

_So I'll stay plain_

 

The poem he writes at sixteen...

 

_ there were always empty pieces to this puzzle; _

_ rooms full of empty space full of your thoughts, the stars _

_ a glittering masquerade of all my troubles. _

__

_ so kiss me under the moonlight and _ __ _ i’ll _ __ _ promise not to tell _

_ but _ __ _ i _ __ _ can’t speak for the darkness; _

_ nor you, under my spell. _

__

_ roads and railways ahead of us, _

_ blue skies and city bridges winking like they are made for us; _

_ we are the world’s missing piece. _

Calen reads it over again several times as the afternoon passes. Pa comes up to his room to let him know dinner’s almost ready and just pauses in the doorway, watching his son smile down at his book like he’s proud of what’s written there. Calen finishes reading the poem before greeting his dad.

Pa asks, “What are you reading?”

Calen shakes his head, stretching his legs out. “Nothing.”

***

The first time Louis wonders what he might do when he’s too old for coaching, he poses the question to Zayn.

Zayn and Liam have, since Helena’s birth, adopted Jonathon and Jeremy (twins) as well as fostered a girl named Luna for a time before her mother could claim custody. Jonathon and Jeremy turn twelve this year, young enough that Calen doesn’t really connect with them but old enough he entertains them when Zayn and Liam pop by, or when they visit the pair.

Zayn sniffles, sick, and says, “Mate. You’re fifty-two, not ninety-two. You’ve still got hair and shit. You’ll be right.”

Louis huffs, kicking his legs up on the table and responding, “Zayn I’m serious. Harry can still write his books and make a movie if he wants, but I’m the oldest sports teacher at school and I’ve seen so many kids through football that any day now one of ‘em will end up playing internationally.”

“Louis? Look. It’s not like you’re not talented in other areas. You have a lot of different choices. You could go into childcare, nursing—fuck, you could even go to school to be a drama teacher. Remember before we went on to college you were toying with that? You’ve already got teaching qualific—”

Gerome and Calen walk into the kitchen loudly, arguing the kind of biscuit they’re going to bake for the school’s swimming carnival. Within three seconds, Louis knows Calen wants chocolate chip and Gerome is backing white chocolate and cranberry.

“Calen,” Louis says warningly.

Sixteen years old has Calen taller than Spencer was at his age, filling his body out well with lithe calves from football and dirty blond hair, almost always messy in that film-star look of style. Calen freezes, turning to Louis and shrugging. “We’ve got to make these for the swim thing tomorrow.”

It means Louis has to leave, so he cracks his shoulders and stands, holding out the phone for Calen to say hi.

Gerome waves at Louis. The boy is shorter than Calen and a bit chubby, dark eyebrows and matching dark hair curling around his ears. It’s messy in the real-life person way and stray pieces of hair escape from the fringe curved over his forehead. He’s a little dorky, the type to snort when he laughs too hard, and the hazel of his eyes is always soft, friendly.

Louis waves back, smiling, and Calen holds the phone in front of his face. Louis is startled and steps back, so Calen dissolves into giggles, Gerome shaking his head with a closed-mouth grin. Taking the phone, Louis says goodbye to the boys and to Zayn, “Z, you’re going to have to say that last part again. Kids are rowdy rascals, buddy.”

He can practically see the eye roll. “I was sayin’ that Astrid’s band broke up years ago and she’s still making it. She’s thirty-eight and people are still screaming for her to sing at concerts.”

“She’ll be another Madonna, with any luck.”

“Anyone else, Louis, I’d let that be. Madonna’s last year weren’t pretty, though. Ash won’t have that.”

With a laugh, Louis settles on the stairs and runs a hand through his hair. “You’re right, she’ll decline much more quickly.”

Zayn threatens to hang up but Louis retracts his statement and they disconnect soon after anyway. Louis’ last words are, “Love you.”

“Love you too, Louis.”

Louis thinks about it, drama teaching. Huh.

***

The first time Calen meets a boy he’s interested in, he’s at the music store with Gee.

Gee’s looking at bass guitars and Calen’s feeling a little jittery from the loss of football (he decided to stop playing on the team to focus on his last year of college and his writing) so he agreed to come along.

The boy mans the counter, unshaved with brown eyes and a lazy grin. He’s with a girl who takes over the register when he comes to help them.

“Hey, do you need any help?” he asks with a foreign accent, stopping by Gee who glances down from the row of guitars. His name tag reads _Jacob_ and Calen looks at him properly, taking in the Christmas sweater even though it’s hardly November, the worn jeans and the way his eyes run up and down Calen’s body and land on his face with a smirk.

Calen swallows, smiles. “Hi.”

Gee also says hello and Jacob tilts his hips, leaning more of his weight on his left side as Gee explains what he’s looking for. Jacob—more of a man than a boy, Calen realises—clicks his fingers. “You’re not made for bass guitars, kid.”

Not sure whether to be insulted or not, Calen’s best friend frowns. “I’m not a kid.”

Jacob laughs, leading them away from the bass guitars to the wall of acoustics, varying designs, colours, string types and even two of the newest kind where only one hand is required as the guitar will automatically strum for you. Calen immediately tries to seek out the ones they have at home, instinct letting him identify the one most similar to his dad’s in the music room and the one Uncle Niall uses when he comes over. 

Flicking his gaze to Gee, he notices his friend skipping over the brightly coloured ones to the more austere guitars, attracted to the unblemished wood and smooth bodies. Jacob notices it too, turning his body to face the wall and slip his eyes over all the different guitars. Calen’s sure he’s seen them all before, knows how they sound under someone’s fingertips, and is content to watch both boys.

Gee’s still got round cheeks and soft hips—Calen has wondered what they might feel like in his hands after he’s had a bad day, the thought of his best friend comforting in any way. Having been friends for so long Calen feels a sense of entitlement, some sort of allowance to think about kissing him, smoothing his hair down in the morning and tasting him, all of him. It’s not like Calen’s ever going to act on it; he’s thought about his other friends in the same way briefly, skimming through his memories to collect details of their beings and wonder what if.

Thinking these things didn’t turn him on or whatever, they were just ways to pass the time regardless of if he couldn’t sleep or if he was chewing the last of his sandwich at school.

Jacob, however...

Calen stares openly, unaware he’s doing so. He catalogues the peach curves of his mouth, accenting the pink undertones in his warm skin, and how the scruff defines his jawline yet somehow makes him appear softer, more approachable. The Christmas sweater, black and oversized, clinging to his wrists and making the snowflakes seem sharp around the Christmas scene.

Jacob moves his head, catching Calen’s eyes. He quirks his lips up, almost amused, and Calen feels the blush on his cheeks more than he can feel his own grey sweater curling over his palms. Gee hums, pulling Calen out of the moment and causing him to cough just to have a reason to cover his burning face. Gee points to a beautiful guitar and queries, “Can I try that one?”

The door chimes, another customer, and Jacob grins. “Of course, man.”

As he’s reaching for it, Calen realises it’s going to be difficult for him to reach and makes a joke about maybe needing a step-ladder. Jacob laughs, “Are you calling me short?”

With a shrug, Calen answers, “Hey, I didn’t say that. I just suggested that, maybe, someone of your size could use a ladder to reach the top shelf rather than jumping on your toes.”

“Kid, I can reach the top shelf just fine, thank you,” he says around yet another grin. Something weird is happening in Calen’s chest and he wills his heart to stop flopping about so he can focus on the teeth fitting perfectly between Jacob’s lips. “In fact,” Jacob remarks, “I think you’re too short to reach this guitar anyway, so you can’t play me like that.”

Gee snorts, knowing a challenge when he hears one, but Calen lets himself raise an eyebrow. Jacob shrugs and Calen steps into his space to reach for the guitar. With a little—tiny, miniscule—lift on his toes, Calen handles the guitar firmly and does absolutely not smile smugly when his heels touch the ground and he turns with the instrument. Jacob, though, hasn’t yet moved and he’s so close to Calen that their chests brush. It’s a bit embarrassing, how Calen can’t restrict the flush of his cheeks and can only hope it isn’t too remarkable. Jacob’s eyes are sparkling.

Calen steps away, ducking his head only a little bit. He isn’t a twelve year old with a crush, jesus, but he can’t seem to stop acting like it.

When he looks at Gee, he mouths, _You like him._

Calen dements his face, lifting a shoulder. It conveys, _What the fuck, I don’t know._

The girl wanders over with the other customer, taking the guitar from Jacob and reassuring the customer that Jacob could help them with their search for a ukulele as she generally handles percussion.

She rings them up, commenting, “These vintage sunbursts have been getting hardly any attention, so I’m glad there’s a cutie like you to take this one home.” She winks at Gee and adds, “Take good care of her.”

Fleetingly, Calen spares a look back as they’re leaving. Jacob’s already looking. His smirk is visible from the door and he waves, brief. Calen waves back and then the door shuts behind him.

That afternoon he and Gee head to the park where Calen breathes in the crisp air, metal seat burning underneath him, and tells Gee that he kind of wants to kiss Jacob.

Gee scoffs, “What am I, new? You wanted to bang the American the moment you snaked your eyes all over him.”

Calen widens his eyes, injured, putting a hand to his chest to drop his mouth open in faux shock. Gee hisses through a growing grin, and they dissolve into laughter that leaves them both gasping for air.

***

The first time Olivia meets Jacob, she’s dragged Calen to her dance studio with him (planned a month in advance after Pa clued her in when she stopped by for tea before Christmas). Jacob, Olivia knows, is nineteen to Calen’s fresh seventeen and is apparently “really fucking hot, seriously Liv, like he’s short but that’s hot as well?” “Cal, please.”

She knows Calen writes about him in the novel he’s begun to craft ( _Sunshine pours into me like I woke up late in the middle of summer, twisted in the sheets, sweating and too comfortable to move even if the heat is suffocating. He’s that feeling, his kiss is that feeling, his hands that gentle breeze you swallow too quickly and it lingers even after you breathe it out. I think I’m in love.)_ and shares fragments in their group chat (Spencer included) when he’s proud of them, or wants an opinion.

Olivia also knows Spencer beat her to meeting him, Izar probably hanging over his shoulder as together they tried to intimidate Jacob. According to Spencer over a face chat, Jacob was intimidated enough to take care when talking to him but also comfortable enough to hold Cal’s hand, hook his foot around Calen’s ankle when they were eating and kiss his cheek goodbye. Izar had been impressed, had called that out from somewhere behind Spencer in their flat.

Jacob today holds up to that.

He’s polite and funny in a fashion that is unconscious, meaning he’s not hiding or pretending to be something that he’s not. He practices with Olivia’s 12-14 yearolds who mostly giggle, but Ella challenges him to a dance off when he tries to say he can dance, just not ballet. Jordan, who flirts with Ella constantly, gets jealous and says something snarky Olivia doesn’t quite catch before sulking out of the room. Olivia sorts him out and comes back to Jacob moon-walking, Calen grinning like a fool in love.

After the two hours are up and Cal’s busy helping the kids pack up, Olivia pulls Jacob aside.

His eyes are soft when she speaks. “I don’t think I need to give you the ‘if you hurt him’ speech but I’m doing it anyway. Don’t hurt him, Jacob. I don’t know how he’d take it—artists with their fragile souls, you know? He’d either make it work or it would devastate him. Either way, I’d find a way to devastate _you_.”

He nods seriously, eyes trailing over to her little brother. If Olivia wasn’t looking for it, she wouldn’t have seen it, but as he locks his gaze his demeanour relaxes as if it’s settling into itself, comfortable and happy. Jacob in a hoodless jumper of Calen’s looks like he’s falling in love. His tone is gentle but sure as he voices, “I wouldn’t. I...”

Realising he’s staring, Jacob looks back to Olivia and shrugs bashfully. “I wouldn’t hurt him.”

***

The first time the kids are all gone, one working to establish his own practice, another a successful dance teacher with the shared studio and a fiancé, and the last at university studying Creative Writing and every hope to finish his novel by the end of the year. Their house is too big and too empty but there are too many memories inside it for them to even consider moving. Louis says so to Harry when he mentions the idea of moving, and Harry pecks his lips and says it’s okay. It’s fine.

(Harry, not a week after Calen leaves home, finds himself crying in the middle of the day. When Louis gets home shortly after Harry’s still crying, isn’t quite sure how exactly to stop. Louis holds him close, making him laugh when he uses a suggestive tone to voice all the things they can do now that they kids are out of the house. And Harry’s sad, he is, but mostly he’s proud of how far they’ve all come in life and is excited to see where they go.)

***

The first time Harry takes a moment to realise how old he is, he’s fifty-three and at his twenty-four year old daughter’s spring wedding. She's marrying Monique and Harry wants to think they’re too young but he looks at Calen tugging Jacob from table to table, his niece with her partner trailing after them; love doesn’t have an age.

Gemma sidles up to him on the dance floor and says, “I’m proud of her, Harry; she’s happy.”

Monique and Olivia in the middle of the floor, both wearing dresses that are almost opposing the other’s; [Olivia’s](https://moncheribridals.com/browse/wedding-dresses/sophia-tolli/y21663-novella/) is strapless, a tulle ball gown with sweetheart neckline, rich crystal hand-beaded embroidery adorning the bodice with a back corset and sparkling gathered full skirt with chapel train; [Monique](http://www.annacampbell.com.au/dresses/forever-entwined/eloise) is wearing a softly sequined ivory dress, glittering as she moves, a slim line lace skirt, a beautiful lace train with bustle and a V-neck bust, lace cap sleeves which she’s worn falling off  her shoulders. Monique’s hair is golden blond and falls in waves, contrasting the deep side part of Olivia’s fringe and the elegant pinup curls.

Their bodies fit together as they dance. Monique spins Olivia and she goes, laughing, turning into her wife and brushing their mouths together.

Harry turns back to Gemma and there are tears in his eyes. She laughs, patting his arm. He shakes her off and laughs too.

“We’re all happy, Gem,” Harry replies belatedly. His mouth curves into a smirk when he sees Robin pulling Marie away from Kristopher, her partner, leaving him to stand with Jacob and Spencer. Spencer and Jacob haven’t quite become as friendly as they once were after Calen moved—the inclusion of Kristopher makes them talk and soon they are laughing, the three of them. Harry nudges his sister, nodding over at their father and her daughter dancing. Gemma chokes on her drink and excuses herself to go join them.

Louis’ back at their table with Jay and Dan, catching up, and Harry realises they’re not young anymore.

He’s okay with it; as long as he’s with Louis everything seems possible.

***

The first time Calen and Jacob break up is not the last.

It happens on a Thursday morning. Jacob calls him—he’s working the afternoon shift and Calen has a morning class, meaning Jacob usually calls and they talk as Calen gets ready. Sometimes they’ll video if Calen’s roommate isn’t there, Bill probably in some girl’s dorm. This particular Thursday Bill is there, rubbing his eyes blearily as Calen stretches in his bed just before his phone starts buzzing on the table.

Calen smacks an arm out, nowhere in reach, and Bill shoves his vintage, round glasses onto his face to grab the phone which has ended up closer to him than its owner.

“Hello?” he croaks, clearing his throat.

Calen yawns and reaches for phone, eyes catching on the clock that tells him Jacob’s called a full hour early. Bill throws the phone over the space between their beds and it hits Calen in the face but he just puts it on speaker, not fussed. “Jacob?”

“Calen? Hi.”

“Why’d you call so early?” he asks through another yawn. His eyes water and he sets the phone on the table between the beds, standing up. Catching sight of his reflection proves interesting because he looks very rumpled, like he had trouble sleeping despite the pillow creases in his cheeks. His hair has added a lot of volume for the longer pieces as they form a mussed curve over his forehead and kind of curl back at the ends. Wow. Combing through it seems like a task for another day, so Calen takes off his shirt and starts rummaging through his drawers.

“Early? Calen, it’s almost ten. I forgot to call and wanted to see if I could grab you before your class, but I guess you won’t be able to talk for long?” Jacob laughs, strained. It makes him frown, taking a sweater out at random and slipping it over his head—it turns out to be from when he thought old sweaters were in and he and Pa had shopped for the entire day for this stupid thing. Tight and coloured like oats, Calen thought he had left this at home with its leather padded elbows and loose collar. Jacob loves it.

He can’t be bothered to change out of it so he fluffs his hair and opens a different drawer. Bill groans, bed creaking.

Calen quickly finishes dressing, telling Jacob to hold on for a moment, accidentally ending up with one of his old football socks tugged over his jeans instead of under, burgundy with three white stripes around the top of his calf, and one pair the same style but black and white stripes rumpled around his ankle. He doesn’t bother with shoes before taking his phone and heading into the hallway for a little privacy.

Jacob’s breathing is harsh when he presses the phone to his ear and Calen gets a little nervous, leaning against the wall.

“Are you okay?” he questions, quiet in the near empty hall.

Jacob laughs, ugly and twisted. Everything inside Calen turns to ice and he’s so fucking worried, so confused, hoping. “Am I okay? Am I okay? I really don’t fucking know anymore, Calen. You’re off, you’re doing things, you’re fucking living, and I’m... I’m stuck in this fucking music store living this endless cycle of repetition, waking up and going to work and coming home and thinking about you. And you don’t—you’re so caught up in your, your new life, new life new friends new interests and no me. You have Bill,” his voice catches snidely, sneering but weak, desperate, “and I don’t have you.”

Absolutely shocked at Jacob’s outburst, all Calen can answer with is, “Jacob... Jacob I love you. I love you so much, I—I thought—”

A huge, shuddery breath. The sound of someone playing the drums—Jacob’s at work. Cluttering noises and rustles of paper, somebody calling Jacob’s name.

Calen’s heart shattering when Jacob’s soft, accented voice asks, “Do you?”

“Of course I do. I would do anything for you, Jacob. I’m sorry you feel so trapped, I’m sorry, I had no idea.”

“I wonder why,” Jacob responds, tone like knives cutting into Calen’s flesh.

Calen blinks, his eyes narrowing as the cold worry turns hot so quickly he’s not sure he won’t have hypothermia. A strange sense of nothingness swallows him whole in that single moment, leaving him suspended in a colourless fraction of space where time doesn’t exist and neither does the Jacob he’s come to know; the Jacob who kisses his fingertips when he’s been writing too much, who let Calen write an entire poem on his back in black ink and shivered when Calen told him how beautiful he looked, how much he looked like he belonged to Calen; the Jacob who plays bass terribly and grins when he fumbles over the chords, saying his talent is not in the four strings and more in knowing whose talent _is_ ; the Jacob who woke him up at five in the morning to take him to the beach, just so they could watch the sunset together, and licked his way down Calen’s cool skin with a smirk and no one else sane enough to be out early on such a cold morning.

The Jacob who pressed inside him with _softslowgentle_ movements for the first time, kissed him like they were an art form and together could create a new world.

“What does that mean?”

Jacob starts crying, tiny whimpers leaking out as he weeps. Calen feels like there’s an entire solar system between them.

“I think we need to take a break,” Jacob whispers.

Bill stumbles out into the hallway, soft hair and round glasses, in his older sister’s brown sweater from when she dropped in and saw how little warm clothes he’d brought. With Gee on the other side of the world, in New York looking for a singer with his band, Bill has become the closest friend Calen has. Gee will always, always have the best friend title and Calen doubts he and Bill will ever be able to read each other the way he and Gee can.

But.

But Calen whispers, “Okay,” and Bill holds out his hand, long, elegant fingers looking so out of place with the navy carpet and new brand of boys milling past, and Calen takes his hand. Bill drags him into his bed, unfamiliar sheets with an unfamiliar scent of cinnamon and all spice and hugs him close. Calen curls in on himself and lets Bill’s fingers trace soothing circles on his ribs, warm and comfortable.

Calen misses his first class, sure, but he misses all of the other ones too.

That night, Bill comes in from his own classes and Calen is still in his bed. Bill smooths a hand over his forehead, brushing his lips against it as he tells Calen he’s going out to a party and probably won’t be back. Normally he might laugh, joke about Bill sleeping with the entire campus, but tonight he breathes out, “Be safe.”

Bill hands him his phone, left in the hallway, and tells him to talk to someone.

Jacob is his most active contact and Calen barely manages to tap Spencer’s name before the tears spill over. Spencer answers, “Hello?”

Calen thinks about how Spencer must have better things to do. How Spencer, a doctor with an engagement band around his finger, friends who adore him, who wasn’t abandoned as a baby, must have better things to do. He almost hangs up until Spencer asks, quieter, “Cal?”

“Spencer,” he chokes, “Spencer, he—”

“Breathe, Calen. Breathe.”

_Breathe._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> good luck doing life things; if it's tests or dealing with ur parents or mental disorders, i believe in u to pull through. bye kids, remember u can always hmu if you want to


	18. go spin circles for me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> spencer marries, jalen, the aftermath, Ethel, a funeral, a baby, Blank, YES, Aya, the Lasts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'um,' you say, 'this story is too unreal, so many not cis-het loves?? how/' it's my story and my pan ass likes as little of this as possible. 'also,' you persist, 'why include links to things we dont care about?' well i care. i want you to see things, sue me. 'lastly,' you begin to conclude, 'im not here for extra characters ;/ .' the fam was needed otherwise there was no textual integrity but mostly i wanted them, accept it. if you love/put up with these things, bless u
> 
> otherwise, we're almost to the end and i'm unsettled by it? guess i never thought i'd get here. enjoy it, my sweet loves. also enjoy panic at the disco's 'from a mountain in the middle of the cabins' from which the chapter name was thieved

The first time Louis takes a moment to realise how old he is, he’s fifty-five at his twenty-eight year old son’s wedding. He’s marrying Izar, like there was any question they wouldn’t be together in this moment ten years ago when Spencer came down the stairs holding Izar’s hand, both their mouths swollen, and told Louis they were dating with an incredulous laugh like he couldn’t believe it. It’s actually sort of terrifying, when he thinks about it, both men accomplished and together for all these years and the ones to come. Spencer’s been moaning to them about Izar ‘pestering’ him for children but Louis can see his longing, that unbridled want.

As Spencer takes Izar’s hands and they are announced husband and husband, Izar’s siblings still giggling at the veil their brother had decided to wear and his three parents watching with gleaming eyes, Louis sees so much of himself and Harry in the pair.

Maybe Louis’ a sap—okay, he is a sap, whatever—but he wishes them the kind of life he’s had because he’s not sure it can get much better.

***

The first time Calen breaks up with Jacob, it is three days after Christmas.

After Spencer’s wedding, all Calen could think about was everything he and Jacob didn’t have that his brother and Izar did. He understands that no couple is the same, nor will they have the same pet names or ways to say _I love you_ , but seeing Izar’s smile underneath that veil, how everyone couldn’t stop smiling the whole afternoon. Spencer and Izar, Monique and Olivia, even Dad and Pa—all so blatantly in love that in the week he’s been back home, seeing the couples sparingly, he knows that they don’t have that. They don’t have the fairytale, forever kind of love.

Calen is tired, supposed to be young and in love but weighed by the never-ending worry of what Jacob might do while he’s away. Possessive mumblings while they’re out together, not taking Calen’s concerns seriously. It’s as though Jacob and Calen can only ever say _I_ _love_ _you_ out loud anymore where the world can hear it and it doesn’t mean what it used to. They’re just not working anymore, they aren’t clicking; Jacob’s thinking about going back to America and reconnecting with his family while Calen knows he would never want to move that far away from his own family permanently. A moan from Jacob’s mouth can sound like any word in the dictionary and it gets repetitive, kissing his throat and murmuring so the sound is blocked out, or Calen can pretend it’s his name.

He talks to his parents about it the night before and realises that this relationship isn’t going to last. Olivia helped him construct a list of pros and cons, snickering to lighten the mood when the list was done and a pro was _kisses like melted chocolate_ across from the con _half-hearted kisses to kill time_.

Calen orders a hot chocolate in a local cafe and relishes in the sweet, sugary flavours on his tongue as he waits. Jacob comes in, scruffy and beautiful as ever. Calen doesn’t know if he’ll ever feel the same about American accents as he did when he first met Jacob, nor does he know if he’ll ever be able to forget the scrape of Jacob’s beard against his cheek, grazing down his neck, between his thighs.

The talk is over abruptly because Jacob orders a drink, sits down and sighs through his _hey_ _babe_. The drink reaches him ten beats later after ten beats of silence and he inhales it, the movement allowing their eyes to connect. Half-closed with contentment, the hazel irises are clear when Jacob sets the cup down. A glance down, something slotting into place. Calen doesn’t think he can lift his gaze again to meet Jacob’s eyes even though he has to because he’s not a coward, he _isn’t_.

That doesn’t mean it makes it any easier to drag his eyes up as Jacob reaches and cradles Calen’s hands around his own cup.

Jacob is comfortable, warm and safe. His hands are in fingerless gloves and the fabric contrast with bare skin makes Calen shiver.

“Jacob,” Calen begins, because if he doesn’t start now then he never will, “I...” he can’t say _don’t love you anymore_ because it isn’t true, can’t say _don’t want to be with you anymore_ because that isn’t true either. Jacob looks like he understands anyway, swallowing sharply and slipping his hands back. “I can’t be with you anymore.”

“Oh,” Jacob says.

 _Oh_.

He didn’t realise.

He didn’t know.

Calen’s hands start shaking so he curls them into fists in his lap. It means that Jacob doesn’t want this, isn’t feeling the same way.

“What,” Jacob croaks, voice suddenly thick. He looks up at Calen, down at the chipped mugs and the stained wooden table. “You’re serious?” he queries (quiet, devastated) and Calen’s face crumples, his composure dissipating with one question. His jaw is quivering and Jacob notices, eyelashes sticking together wetly, and echoes himself. “Oh.”

Calen feels absolutely sick, stomach tight and fat tears spilling down his cheeks. Jacob pulls out of the booth hesitantly as though he’s not sure if he’s welcome anymore. His movements are disjointed, jerky; he weaves through tables and other people and he has almost never existed in this cafe where his heart has been broken. Jacob’s at the door, head low, the epitome of disconsolate. Calen doesn’t know he’s opened his mouth until it’s too late and he calls, “Jacob.”

Jacob doesn’t turn around.

Calen, later, will be grateful. Now—now he is inconsolable and shudders violently, alone.

The waitress comes by his table and gives him another hot chocolate. Her face is worn and she rasps, motherly, “I know heartbreak when I see it. You don’t have to pay for this one, love.”

***

The first time Calen fucks a girl her name is Bertha. Bertha has long, curling hair like silk and smells like burnt sugar. Her hands are small and wrap around his biceps as he moves inside of her. She gasps and pulls him in harder, deeper.

A week later he has sex with Ruby (blue eyes, a poet’s dream), Tamika (dark skin, full curves), Joseph (religious, whispers prayer against skin and comes shouting in vain). Distinguishing features blur through the months as time goes until he sleeps with a boy who looks young, _eighteen_ slurred with pleasure, and doesn’t remember his name.

Two parcels come in the post. Inside the smaller one, there is a note and it’s scribbled with, _Got this for you. I forgot about it but I walked past that cafe and I remembered. Sorry. Happy birthday – Jacob_

It’s a beautiful fountain pen, sleek gold and black design with an engraved tip, a heart as the breather hole. Underneath the pen is a notebook, cream white faux leather bound in thin ropes of black leather. The tie is loose, hastily done up. On the first page, there is a drawing of a kitten, tricoloured patches of fur and blush pink cheeks, huge eyes and a speech bubble. ‘I meowve you purry much.’

Below that is a cartoonish drawing of Jacob, blushing like the kitten and mouth an open smile, across from a similar drawing of himself, identified by the hair and the colour of his eyes.  Between them: ‘if we love each(shyly)/other,what clouds do or Silently/Flowers resembles beauty/less than our breathing’.

‘if i love You’ by e.e. cummings—Calen recognises it instantly. He’d shared it with Jacob two months after they first met, a way to let him know what Calen was feeling (love).

Scribbled out, under the whole scene, Jacob’s sweet scrawl declares, ‘I love you Cal, happy birthday! I hope you fill this journal with thoughts about my rock hard abs ;) Dream of me always, kid xx.’

Ironically, Calen has dreamt of Jacob four times out of seven ever since that night. Before his birthday.

God.

Calen presses the palms of his hands into his eyes and breathes.

The second box has a few shirts, a notebook Calen filled in a week and forgot about, and other items he kind of forgot about like a cheap ring from a cereal box as well as a wooden carousel Christmas ornament. He notes the distinct lack of the ugly oat sweater and lets himself be mad for a full three minutes before he realises how sad it all is. Jacob can keep the ugly sweater if he really wants to; he always loved stealing it and telling Calen all the compliments people gave him while Calen told him they must all be mad. It isn’t like Calen doesn’t have one of Jacob’s horrendous Christmas sweaters stuffed in one of his drawers, the scent barely lingering.

 

Six years later he’ll meet Nina and the first words he hears out of eir mouth are the first words of ‘if i love You’, some sick twist of fate that has him thinking of Jacob for the first time in months. Then Calen will see eir hair curled around a slim, pale neck and Jacob will be the last thing on his mind.

***

The first child Spencer and Izar have is spoiled totally and absolutely rotten by her extended family. Not only does Ethel have four grandfathers and one grandmother, she has Jay, Dan, Robin, Izar’s parent’s parents, Izar’s uncles and aunts, Gemma and Kyle, all of Louis’ sisters and his brother, as well as her own uncles and aunts and, possibly at the top of that list, her parents.

Ethel has Spencer’s eyes and Izar’s nose, ears, and fingers according to Monique who says she’s an expert on determining these things. Ryla (Izar’s mother) bumps Monique’s hip gently as she refutes this, claiming that Tyler (one of Izar’s fathers) said the same thing about the twins—Thomas’ biologically (Izar’s other father), now twenty-five—and his predictions weren’t accurate in the slightest.

Ethel falls asleep in Harry’s arms while everyone argues, crowded in her parent’s house and spilled over the lower floor. Louis nudges his nose under Harry’s ear and whispers, “Should we steal her?”

Harry grins and shakes his head, whispering back, “Watch this.”

He takes a single step back. The room turns to watch him move.

Louis laughs.

Spencer pops around the corner and squints. “Dads, what are you doing with my baby?”

Calen, who has had a ‘bad day’ (what they call the days he has trouble getting out of bed), huffs a gentle laugh. He curls up further in the armchair he’s sunken into and says tiredly, “They raised you, Spencer; you’ve got nothing to worry about.”

With a roll of his eyes followed by a smile, Spencer ducks back around the corner while Harry has to pass Ethel on to Jay he’s laughing so hard. She coos at Ethel who opens her mouth to try and suck on Jay’s finger.

***

The first time Louis cries about his mother’s death he’s not yet sixty and he hates the funeral. There are too many flowers and too many guests who don’t know her well enough to be in attendance, too many _amuse-bouches_ floating around with not enough champagne on too many silver trays. Dan isn’t crying but he sits stoically, back straight and head down, and doesn’t look up once. The girls, Ernest, and Louis fill the entire row, Dan at the aisle, families on the row behind. Harry rests his hand on Louis when he starts crying, combing his fingers through Louis’ hair as his sisters attempt to comfort him through their own tears.

Meaningless words come from a man at the front by a coffin, despite Jay being an organ and limb donor. Filtering through the words is easy until his voice is a hum confused with all the other senses of Louis’ body. All that runs through his mind, steady and clear, is her arms wrapped around him at different stages in his life; swollen belly and scented like powder and home, consoling him when he and Harry had fought over something trivial, after he came out, before she pushed him down the aisle and told him to get on with it because love doesn’t wait. Through Spencer and Olivia and Calen, her own seven children and various marriages and career choices and everything else she ever did, she was always there for Louis.

Louis hates the funeral less for what it has and more for what it is; they are supposed to celebrate Jay’s life, her accomplishments and who she was. Instead, it is a bunch of people who all remember her differently commemorating each version of her they’ve created in their minds.

Dan barely stays for the gathering afterwards. Ernest and Doris look at each other and then to Robin, who smiles grimly and says his goodbyes, following Dan out of the room.

All of these individual lives, converging at this one point.

Harry grips Louis’ hand while they stand, people milling about, and he wonders how Harry’s gone so long without his mum when his has been gone for less than three days and he already wants her back.

***

The first time Olivia meets Joan’s mother, it’s not at all how she might have imagined it.

Joan is, in essence, the star of her age group. At fifteen, Joan has broad shoulders and moves like silk in the wind, satin-smooth twists and turns that prove her dedication, her drive, and passion for dance. Really, Joan is the best dancer Olivia’s seen, hence why she asks Joan to bring her parents in after a lesson so they can—all four—discuss Joan’s future in dance. Joan’s been really nervous ever since and especially throughout today’s lesson she’s been either too focused or not enough.

Having attempted to calm her several times with no effect, Olivia asks if Joan wants to take a break for the last five minutes and get herself together before her parents come in. Thankful, Joan takes out her hair and begins packing up.

Not-uncommonly, Monique steps through the doors.

Olivia grins, leaving her 15-16 year olds to twirl into Monique’s arms. Monique is thirty-four weeks pregnant, swollen beautifully with Olivia’s baby inside her and Olivia’s overjoyed. They’re so excited it can be hard to contain sometimes. Today, however, Monique looks tired.

“What the hell, Liv,” Monique whispers, eyes suddenly going a little wild. “Liv, god, she’s been kicking me and prodding me all day, I’m going to collapse. I want her out, Jesus. And,” she leans in closer, “I’ve been _leaking_. I was at the shop, getting some socks for her, and I sneezed and I was completely mortified because Isaac almost saw. His first day flooring it and I practically pissed myself.”

Okay, so, it’s not funny, but Olivia can’t help the snicker. Monique puts a hand to her belly, stepping back and shaking her head like she’s disappointed. Olivia steps forwards and kisses her, sing-songing, “Sorry, Monique. I love you and I love that you’re having our baby.”

With a roll of her eyes, Monique confides wearily, “I wish I wasn’t, seriously, she’s so much and I can’t see my _toes_. I miss my toes,” she says, frowning sadly at her belly. Olivia brushes her hair out of her eyes and tucks it behind her ear, pressing a soft kiss to her temple and answering, “She’ll be out soon, Monique. Imagine when we see _her_ toes and her little fingers, your eyes and my nose; mini versions of us. It’ll be just like looking at your toes anyway.”

“Okay, all right, but I need to sit down and you need to drive me home. I don’t give a single fuck about the inconvenience, so don’t get started with me. Call your brother or something, one of them’ll pick it up, right? Spencer can give me more tips, that bastard doesn’t know what it’s like to be pregnant but he’s ace with tips.” The class starts giggling because Monique wasn’t quiet but they all say hello to her as Olivia helps her to the kitchen area to sit at the table. She sighs and mumbles, “I feel huge, baby.”

“Me or baby-baby?” Olivia quirks an eyebrow. Flicking a glance at the clock, she tells everyone to start packing up. Monique doesn’t answer.

The clock ticks over to six pm and, on the dot, Joan’s mum comes through the doors with a familiar man behind her.

She looks like a mum. Not in the traditional sense but more the dyed blond hair with that sweeping fringe, neutral makeup and a beige, draping cardigan over a white blouse. The man reaches for her hand, the husband who Olivia’s met before, wearing a blue suit and a yellow tie. Turning back to share a smile with Monique, Olivia finds she’s got her eyes closed so she walks to meet Joan and her mother halfway from the door in the middle of the dance studio.

“Hi, Joan’s parents? I’m Olivia.”

“I know,” the woman smiles, extending her arm to shake Olivia’s hand. “I’m Theresa. Sorry we’ve not met before, I’m usually working so my husband drops the cherub off. This is James, by the way.”

Olivia’s shakes both of their hands and lets Joan lead them to the kitchen while she sees the last of her kids out the door of her studio. The kitchen is shared between the three different rooms and though sometimes they’ll alternate rooms, Olivia generally stays in this one because—god only knows why—the other two creep her out. It might be the fact one of her kids always hurts themselves in the other rooms.

Having forgotten Monique was in the kitchen, it’s a little shock when she stumbles in on Monique wearing her best polite face, a step away from baring her teeth and telling the woman to fuck off. Eyes widening, Olivia notices Joan trying to ease the conversation and tries to imagine a conversation that could have Monique reacting so sharply within not two minutes. Theresa is still smiling the same smile she had on when she walked in and James is rolling his eyes as he fixes two cups of tea. He offers Olivia one when she comes in but Olivia declines, sitting next to Monique, Joan at the head of the table and her mother directly in front of Olivia.

“What are we talking about?” Olivia asks, friendly as she flashes a smile at Theresa. She slips a hand from her lap to rest on Monique’s knee, scratching her fingers lightly over the leggings, trying to soothe Monique. Consciously or not, Olivia has angled herself in front of Monique to block the path of interaction between this woman and her wife.

“I was just asking your friend when she’s due because she’s humongous! My goodness, I think I was only half her size when I had Joan.”

Ah.

Monique clears her throat and says, “Actually—”

“We’re really excited,” Olivia answers, nudging Monique quiet. She’ll pay for it later, but the point now isn’t to argue with one of her kid’s mums about upsetting a pregnant woman. James sets the two cups on the table with gentle clinks and slides his arm around Theresa. Joan rolls her eyes and says, “Mum, I’ve seen the photographs. You were maybe four times as big before you went into labour.”

“Joan, please,” James rumbles, taking a sip of his hot tea. Monique pinches the back of her hand and Olivia wishes she’d said yes to the tea because it looks so inviting now.

Theresa’s eyes have narrowed fractionally, and though her voice is still affable something starts ticking in Olivia. “We?”

Monique, under Olivia’s hand, tenses so much that for a second Olivia feels as though suddenly the baby’s coming early. Silence settles and that feeling morphs into what Monique’s been joking about since three weeks ago when people started commenting on her state, _Mama Bear Mode_ , or MBM for short. The vibe this woman is giving off currently airs around them, creating a negative environment where if this were an atom there would be more electrons than protons and neutrons together, giving a negative charge. Not that Olivia’s really into chemistry, that’s more Monique’s area

Olivia frowns deeply. “Yes ‘we,’” she says openly. She holds up her hand, Monique’s going up as well, following her lead. “We’re married.”

Theresa’s eyes grow wide and she sits back in her seat, features cold and hard. There’s a spine-chilling smirk on her face when she spits out, “Faggots.”

“Mum!” Joan shouts, appalled.

Monique, god help her, bursts into tears and everything in Olivia stops dead.

Maybe if they were different people, if Joan wasn’t there, if James wasn’t sighing his wife’s name as she sneered grossly and cringed away from them. Perhaps if Monique wasn’t thirty-four weeks pregnant and exhausted, if Olivia didn’t have so much faith in Joan’s abilities, if the studio hadn’t been empty. The woman might not have said anything and Olivia wouldn’t have to say coolly, furious, “Excuse us for a moment.”

Monique lets Olivia help her from the chair and Joan starts talking to her mother but neither women listen, because Monique leans heavily, shaking with the force of her tears. Before they step out of the area, having to go slowly to accommodate the huge belly, Monique turns gently and with a shuddering voice says, “Fuck you. You think you’re so good because you’re a straight person? I love girls, what’s bad about that? At least my wife loves me. You’re a disgrace.”

Outside by the cars, Monique waves her hand in front of her face and laughs softly, tired. “I’m fine, Olivia, really. Just the fucking hormones.”

“Are you sure? Because that woman was literally disgusting and you were crying and I was so worried, doll.”

“Yes, of course. If you don’t mind, though, I’d prefer to stay out here for the duration of Satan’s visit lest she curse our sweet baby.”

Olivia laughs and kisses Monique softly, letting the salt linger on her tongue before pulling back. “How was your shop today, actually? You said you stopped in—you had Isaac on the floor today right? How was he?”

Monique owns a clothing store called ‘ _esthetic_ ’—she says the non-capitalisation presents it as less threatening, more about ‘come here’ than ‘buy things’. It looks like a museum inside, ivory and gold and burgundy presenting her shop as classy with taste or, in the eyes of some, pretentious and tacky. The shop generates a modest profit considering most of the clothes are for niche markets like people who yearn for Victorian era ruffle shirts or an oddly wide variety of yoga pants. There’s also less niche stuff like lingerie dedicated to people who bind their chests, black sweaters from the smallest to the largest size and half a wall dedicated to socks.

Monique’s been going in daily, training her two main employees (Isaac and Priya) for when she can’t come in. She’s also training the only other staff member she can afford—West, a seventeen year old boy really only interested in the pay but is genuinely sweet to customers. Isaac had his first turn on the floor today.

“Yes! Yeah, Isaac was doing brilliantly. West phoned and said he could come after school if we needed him, but Isaac was doing so well I told him we wouldn’t. I’m proud of him, you know. He’s come so far in these weeks,” Monique admits proudly. “I don’t actually know what I’ll do after, though. I suppose me and the little monster will be at home mostly.”

And maybe Monique thinks she isn’t dealing well with her pregnancy and maybe she can’t wait for it to be over, but this moment makes Olivia want to relive every moment since they knew Monique had a growing life inside of her because it’s all so surreal. There’s a light glow of light, reflecting as a prism would the colours of the world. Grey skies and endless possibilities hidden in the greys coloured like violet; Olivia wants them all.

She has to go back inside and talk to Joan’s parents for Joan’s future, must face homophobia again and again in her lifetime like even though it’s 2053 there will never be an end to it. From what her parents have told her, it was much worse when they were young and that—to know that it was _worse_ , worse than this—is horrifying. Nothing seems to stick in society, ever-changing ups and downs, improvements and take-backs as if life is a game and everyone’s stuck playing.

At least Olivia has her family. She doesn’t know what she’d do without them.

***

The first time Louis forgets it is Olivia’s name, and there is a huge pressure in his head that’s been there since he woke up and gradually worsened over the day. He’s tired from a day at school where the teenagers are a wild bunch of unruly, slack, tired and quiet kids. They seem to go through phases of motivation and respect, the downward spiral until there is the phase he currently has where half don’t speak and the other half speak constantly. At sixty-two, Louis is looking forward to being a year older when he can retire.

About the forgetting; he’s speaking to his daughter while she nurses his granddaughter, Alice, and tries to say, “You won’t believe the kids, Olivia, they’re so unmotivated it’s as though they use all their energy in other classes which I know isn’t true.”

Instead, he trips and stumbles over the part where he says her name, the rest of the sentence disappearing in his mind. Olivia doesn’t seem to mind, blaming it on said tiredness but expresses her concerns by telling him he should have a lie-down. Louis apologises when he can remember and nuzzles Alice to kiss her cheek goodbye, ignoring the blurred vision of Olivia’s frame as they leave.

***

The first time Calen says ‘yes’ so emphatically he loses all his breath and faints like a swooning woman in a very old novel, Nina asks him to marry er.

Nina approached Calen after eir poetry reading of e.e. cummings and a few of eir own pieces. E had blond hair to eir shoulders, huge sunglasses, and the most wicked smirk when e asked if Calen knew how ‘typically English’ he looked, followed by er saying, “I like your dad’s work, by the way.” E laughed when he asked which one, even though he knew what e meant—it had happened enough that Calen had an ingrained response.

From there it tumbled out of their hands, blooming like marigolds ( _creativity_ , whispered to him by the florist kissing eir way down his body, _passion_ ); no sooner than a week later Calen begun composing poetry about perpetually cool hands and the elegant bend of a neck, craning back to catch his eye.  

Nina is unafraid to venture into unknown territory with eir eyes open, hands spread and ready to experience the world. E wasn’t put off when Calen mentioned his depression (though not his other disorders, not then). Calen discovered the shape of eir body, gliding his hands over the pale skin, the scar tracks, the tattoos swarming every inch of skin on eir left arm and could understand the difference between the smile that meant _I’m happy_ and the smile that meant _I can’t do this anymore_. Within four months they moved in together, and by the time the first year was over Nina came home with a puppy in each of eir arms and presented the sweethearts with fluttering eyelashes.

Of course it’s Nina who gets down on one knee, Elise (an apricot and white toy cavoodle) and Copper (a red toy cavoodle) sleeping on each other, and mesmerises Calen with eir blinks, quick like his heartbeat. It’s twenty-seven minutes past eight in the morning and Nina proposes while Calen looks like a mess, unshaven and only wearing one sock; this isn’t to say Nina is any better because e quite literally tumbles straight out of bed when Calen gets up to get them some tea. E fumbles under the bed while he yawns, wiping away the sleep from his eyes as e then walks to him and drops to one knee.

Nina’s so unnervingly beautiful like this, weak morning sunlight stretching to filter through any spaces and highlighting eir cheekbones, the flat hair hanging mussed around eir face. Calen’s pajama pants and a forest green lace bralette hiding meagre circles of skin, old t-shirt stretched holey and thin slipping dramatically down eir arm. Sleep-flushed cheeks and a ring box cradled in eir palms.

Bewildered, Calen looks at the ceiling briefly, seeking any answers.

It doesn’t give any so he lets Nina captivate his gaze again as e says, “Calen, my sweet, my darling; we could go on all day about how brilliant you are and how fantastic I am, and how lovely we are together.” Nina falters as Calen’s eyes go blurry and he swallows, throat constricting. All he can see is eir eyes, vastly deep and earnest. Voice fragile and a little rough from sleep, Nina goes on. “We all know that we’re kind of perfect for each other—you’re everything good about me, the sun and the moon of my life all at once, moving around me and letting me ‘round you. I could kid myself and say I love you, but it’s so much more than that Calen. I don’t know how you managed to get me to fall so far so quickly but I do know that I want you with me until we’re grey and tired. It’s always been you; even when I didn’t know you I’d have these fantasies and I’d imagine _someone_ , and it’s you, you fucking arsehole. I imagine you before I saw you in your posh little scarf and looking so untouchable that I just had to.”

Nina coughs, a little laugh, and Calen wipes his cheeks with a sleeve. E smiles, bright like the sun and eyes glittering, beautiful. E opens the ring box and it’s...[stunning](http://www.brilliantearth.com/Pear-Bezel-Diamond-Ring-Rose-Gold-BE1D53PS/); Calen doesn’t know very much about rings but he knows it has a rose gold band, sleek and delicate, with a small, tear-shaped gem turned sideways in the centre of the band. His breath catches. It is absolutely beautiful.

“Would you, Calen Finley Tomlinson, marry me?”

Here is the part where Calen says, “ _Yes_ ,” fervently, already lightheaded from holding his breath and subsequently faints onto Nina.

When he opens his eyes e’s laughing with relief and at the situation, but the ring has been slipped onto his finger and Nina bends down to kiss him, soft and sweet. Elise barks at something from the window seat, waking Copper who squirms underneath Elise and makes her topple over. Nina’s tongue slides slowly, delicately over Calen’s tongue, causing him to shiver and kiss back with more pressure. Copper begins yapping and e pulls back, giggling.

“Can’t seem to have a moment with these pupsters, can we?”

Everything feels new and so there are butterflies in Calen’s fingertips when he touches them to Nina’s skin and practically sparkles.

“Holy fuck,” Calen announces as the ring reflects light into his eyes. “How much was this? I can’t imagine that as a florist you generated the income for whatever this afforded.”

Nina laughs, shocked, and expresses, “Two things, darling; you’re not supposed to ask but it was actually my mother’s I had refitted, and you’ve never sounded more English.”

“Because we live in England? You just called me darling, Nina, please,” he argues. “What did you expect, a blooming ‘Aussie’ accent?”

Nina starts crying e’s laughing so hard and wheezes out, “Stop it, god. I’m in love with you but no more of this.”

“I’m in love with you too,” Calen says, beaming, banter forgotten. Then, in his worst southern American accent, “You and me baby, we’re headin’ for the stars.”

***

The first time Spencer cries from exhaustion, Aya has been screaming for hours after days of keeping them awake for bursts of time throughout the night. Because Spencer has his own practice he volunteered to take some time off and stay at home relatively full time, ducking into the office to see his regular patients when they need him.

He’s been awake for so long he can’t really think straight, remembers speaking to a woman about hormones and remembering to sleep otherwise she could get sick and wouldn’t be able to properly care for her baby. Spencer recalls that conversation and knows he’s running on pure adrenaline and a half bowl of oats. Aya’s just usually so _good_ ; yes she screams but not for so long so loudly. It’s hard in this state to recognise the cry and he rocks her, sings to her, uses a toy to distract her and wonders when Izar will get home.

Shortly after lunch is the answer. It’s too hot despite the snow outside and Izar comes home to a silent house, Aya in the middle of the rug with Spencer on his side, cradling her. The house is about as cold as it is outside though Aya is swaddled enough it’s possible she isn’t feeling it. Izar turns on the air con, taking his coat off before going down on his knees to watch the pair. Aya’s full cheeks make her mouth pout in her position, eyes shut and one hand curled loosely on Spencer’s neck. The man is out cold, forehead hot when Izar brushes his hair back, tan skin paling and dark circles around his eyes.

Izar takes Aya gently, not disturbing her as he settles her in her rocker, and kisses Spencer’s mouth. Spencer groans weakly, eyes fluttering open. Izar kisses him again then helps him to bed, noting tear tracks on his cheeks.

“Okay, Spence?” Izar asked, hushed. He removes Spencer’s trousers and covers him with the blankets. “You’re quite warm and you might be ill, duckling.”

Spencer shoves his face into the pillows and moans. Sheets crinkling, he shifts until he can mumble, “Shhh...”

As eloquent as ever.

Izar laughs warmly and presses his mouth to Spencer’s, tender like a first hello.

Spencer sleeps. Izar doesn’t wake him until Ethel gets home from school and he makes dinner—Ethel is preoccupied with a nap and Aya sleeps too. A sleepy household, his two girls and one man. When he was younger, Izar had feared he would never find somebody to love him. He takes a bit of capsicum from the stir-fry and bites down, various spices assaulting his mouth with the sweet crunch from the vegetable. He has no idea why he worried about those things when Spencer was beside him the whole time.

***

The first time Louis is diagnosed with the end of this life, Harry is beside him—like he’d be anywhere else. Aged sixty-two and feeling like the world has come to an abrupt finish, Harry lets the young voice of the doctor wash over him and wonders if he has ever felt so much and yet so little. Louis has a brain tumour and has had it for months.

The ‘where’ is underneath all the medical jargon understood by few and is repeated in simple terms as “desperately unreachable if you want regular body and brain functions, Louis.”

Louis’ new doctor, Atsuko Naru, begins to list therapy options, medications; she mentions a partial removal surgery for various reasons but says it can’t be totally removed because it’s too dangerous—“There are many elements of surgery that are as dangerous now as they were when medicine began to take a hold of us, additionally effected by the positioning of the tumour. It’s...buried deeply, swallowing everything important, but...”

Louis stops her because maybe it’s selfish but he’d rather die in the rough two years she estimated (without further scans and procedures, the true prognosis won’t be known) he has than pass in the middle of surgery. Miss Naru has a strange quirk to her mouth as Louis interrupts and she shakes her head when Harry sends her a questioning glance.

When they’re ready to leave, Louis’ lip is quivering and the pain in his head is relatively mild considering the pain in his chest. Harry tries not to break down in the fucking parking lot when he realises he has to drive them home because Louis might have a seizure; at least Louis keeps his mouth shut because Harry really has no clue what he might have done if he tried to put up a fight. To think they thought they were just migraines.

Louis feels absolutely sick, unbuckling the seatbelt in a car he may never drive again in front of their home which he might only have a year at most in. He realises that he wouldn’t be cheating death, not looking at Harry—Harry who’s trembling, hunched and quiet with tear-reddened eyes and silver hair he runs shaky hands through. It would be kicking death in the face and saying, ‘Fuck you.’ The relief is evident in Harry’s body language when Louis agrees that he should receive treatment. Together they occupy two dining table chairs across from each other, cups of tea steaming (Anne used to tell Harry it was the solution to everything) like escaping ghosts, and decide that rather than risking the partial removal Louis will do whatever else it takes to diminish and hopefully destroy the tumour.

Harry reaches across the table and links their fingers like crossing vines, nothing new and still so comforting. Familiarity is not something he’d considered would be subject to his woes but nonetheless, he feels a deep sorrow burrow its way into his stomach and settle violently, like heartbreak. Harry catches his eye and smiles, albeit feebly. “It’s not like this is the end, Lou. Right?”

“Of course not, angel, no bleeding way. We have Atsuko Naru and eons of medical successes to help me, and I have you. I’m not going out like this, Harry, seriously. It may sound ridiculous and maybe you’ll reflect on this if I do end up passing, but I want you to know that I’ve always wanted to be with you until the end and that end isn’t anytime soon.”

Despite these words, he feels powerless; it hits him that of all the things in the world humans are the least untouchable. Grief and suffering and disorder, cures to everything but the most and least fatal illnesses. Everything around them lets them sleep at night and cradles them through the hardships, but now they’ll be sleeping with ghosts and waking up to find themselves at sea. Louis can see Harry in two years sitting alone at this table and that image stabs into him severely, a murderer on its own. Who needs cancer to kill you when you have loved ones preparing for life without you?

Harry, ever a hopeless romantic, had never envisioned that fate would have this in store for them. They have a beautiful family, children who have branched out and are paving pathways in history, even if they’re the small histories from those they meet and interact with. Their home has an echo of memory around every corner—sometimes Harry hears ‘Pa!’ when he opens the front door, sees glimpses of Calen tugging up his football socks or Olivia spinning through the kitchen to steal a biscuit or Spencer stumbling sleepily into their bedroom when he couldn’t sleep in the new house. He just...on the news, there are always people who say, “We didn’t think it would happen to us.” Right now, Harry can almost picture the glint of light off the lens as he rasps, “I didn’t believe it could happen to us. It happens all around us but I never thought that we...”

Louis tells him they have to let their children know and Harry agrees, of course, but he pleads to give them another day of freedom from the overbearing weight of this knowledge. Ignorance is bliss, after all.

That night Louis makes the arrangements for everyone—kids, sisters, brother, Dan—to meet at Robin’s on the coming Saturday. Lottie pesters him the most about what it’s for, calling up to bitch at him how he hasn’t spoken to her for at least a month; obviously, she’s joking as her tone has that mischievous lilt to it that all Tomlinson’s/Deakin’s share, but Louis apologises sincerely and she must hear the seriousness to his voice because she lets him hang up soon after. Their voices linger in the quiet and Harry starts crying, he can’t help it, and Louis just holds him.

In bed, Harry curls his body around Louis and compares their tattoos. The ones that fit together and the ones that are their own, individual spreads of ink with a more personal significance than the image might allow. The delicate intimacy of sharing meaning through their skin, now fragile and thinning. He wonders what might have happened if they hadn’t gone for that scan today. Where would they be now?

This is when the lasts begin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ?? srry


	19. douse the lights

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the lasts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> apologies about the wait! there is a lot i wanted to say that i've forgotten?? mostly a huge thank you to everyone reading tbh, w/out you I wouldn't have had the motivation to finish this
> 
> title from panic! at the disco's 'i constantly thank god for esteban'.

The last time Louis can say he’s free of medication, chemotherapy and radiation their family goes for dinner. They don’t go for dinner, though, really; it’s just at Harry and Louis’ house.

It’s been two weeks since Louis was diagnosed and one week from when they told the kids. Harry’s been coping. Atsuko Naru eases the nerves—she encourages them to think positively with her lilting voice and soft eyes. Louis is struggling with that, mouth tight with everything he’s pushing down to deplete its existence before it becomes corporeal. It will bite him or maybe swallow him whole, but Louis just waves his hand and shrugs. Miss Naru offers them an AI to monitor Louis’ health—something, she told them, they’d need afterwards. Harry only needs a glimpse of the tension in Louis’ hand on his thigh to decline.

Nina has called once just to let them know that Calen’s taking it pretty hard and he’s struggling to get out of bed again—e assures them that he _is_ getting up and he’s seeing his psychiatrist and taking his meds, but coping might not be the word for it. E says he’ll be there.

Olivia arrives first with Calen not long behind her, Spencer rushing in with a grin and a bottle of wine ten minutes late.

Something in Louis’ stomach quivers when he sees them all together and he ignores it whole-heartedly, giving a smile which is real but appears false. It’s like...the atmosphere is a befuddled clash of natural and warm with unchartered territory none of them know how to cross, and Louis’ fighting through dense forests with his bare hands trying to keep his family safe but the real battle is within himself. It’s one he knows without a doubt that he is going to lose. This doesn’t bother him so much but Christ, was he really such a fool for thinking he would live forever with the one person on earth who means more than living itself?

Nothing makes sense anymore. Louis forgets and life is chaos and Louis remembers and he lives in the destructive aftermath.

At least he has his family. He’d be so fucking lost without them.

In all, it isn’t a bad dinner. There are points when Harry almost gives up, Louis can see. He almost gives up when Olivia sees the chicken wrapped in parma ham and her eyes well up with tears; when Louis has to close his eyes to stop the dizziness and when he opens them Spencer has his eyes clenched shut tightly too; when Calen’s knee doesn’t stop bouncing the entire time.

However, Spencer tells Olivia that Ethel thinks she wants to dance and Olivia grins so brightly the world stops turning for a moment. Everyone listens when Harry poses ideas for a new novel and Calen takes his time to think about it then gives the best answer with quick speech and a smile edging into his tone like excitement—Harry thinks this is the best advice he’s ever been given.  

They learn that not everything is bad, that evening. It might all be going to shit but Louis’ still alive and there’s a chance he’s going to make it. If not, then the time they have left with him surely counts more than the years they will have without him. Right?

Calen is the last to leave and he presses a slip of paper into Louis’ hands, kissing his cheek and then—almost—shaking as he heads to his car. He turns around at the last moment and says, “Don’t worry about me, okay? I love you!”

Nothing like dread settles in Louis’ stomach and he shouts the words back, warm. Harry steps back inside and when Louis turns the paper over, the world floods.

_once it was me and you and the end_  
_we stared right at it_  
_turning left again and again_  


_nothing stopped and we weren’t waiting_  
_cancer of the brain and cancer of the mind_  
_i’ve never had the virtue of patience_  


_don’t let me down and don’t lift me up_  
_someone is making something new_  
_and we are stuck ~~fucking~~ fixing this all ~~up~~_

Louis tucks it into his pocket and closes his eyes to breathe.

Before Harry can begin cleaning, Louis tugs Harry’s hand and drags him out onto the street. Harry hardly protests, wrapping his arm around Louis’ waist as they walk in the biting air of the night time. Louis twists his arm so he can thread his fingers with his husband’s, entwined like ropes. Once Harry curls his fingers over Louis’ fingertips, he doesn’t want to let go lest his ship be lost out at sea.

Aiming for the closest bar, it takes them twenty minutes to reach the glowing and yet muted sign and another five minutes to each have a drink in front of them. Unbeknownst to them, it’s the last time they get drunk together. Louis is full of energy, tumour forgotten in reminiscent tunes and Harry’s steady grin. Harry becomes soft and fond, too giggly with a pleasant warmth humming in his bones. He swears at one point, when they are breathless with laughter, that Louis glows. It’s tricks of light and the sweet tang of smoke, but...

***

The last time they go ‘all the way’, they’re sixty-two and sixty-four with alcohol on their tongues, touches like infatuation.

Louis’ stomach is pudgy, soft like butter when Harry moves his hands across it as he crowds Louis by the wall. Layers removed, landing anywhere, skin against skin and mouth on mouth, slow. Their tattoos don’t look bad like so many people said they would—if possible, they look better, a provision of memories that may have been lost.

They stumble into the bedroom like teenagers but the way Louis curls into Harry’s space is practiced and graceful, arms slipping around his neck to rest heavily there. Like he wants to trap Harry in place. Harry is so breathless and the world outside their window is hushed, waiting, watching. The littered heaven of their bedroom, inaccessible by a cloying emptiness which seems to follow them everywhere else, moon-blanched and mapped in history by milky coffee and smudges.

It becomes dream-like, sweet. The aftertaste of night time and the afterthought of two bodies moving together.

Harry moves into Louis with teasing thrusts and grins when Louis whines, huffing up at Harry as if it would urge him to go faster, deeper. He is enveloped by Louis, so hot and so gorgeous that his head is light. Fingers buzzing with the need to touch and he does, Harry spreads his palms and loves Louis like he deserves. Louis deserves everything Harry has to give and he gives anything.

When they’re lying next to each other staring at the moon-lit ceiling, old and sated and a little bit sad, Louis says more to Harry’s chest than Harry, “Harry. Harry...thank you. I don’t think—I mean, I fucking love you.”

Harry has to breathe deeply before the tears recede and his hands stop shaking as they card through Louis’ greying hair. “I love you, Louis. So much.”

“Like you,” Louis slurs softly, burrowing into Harry’s body. “We made it this far, angel. Why can’t we make it longer?”

Harry doesn’t have a reply, words scattered in his mind and gluing his throat closed. He yearns desperately for something to say. Nothing comes, and the moon says goodnight.

 

In the morning, the trip to the hospital is awful and uneventful.

Atsuko Naru gives them a status report, grim expression warped on her features: Louis, as it seems, only has eight months left.

***

The last time Harry falls in love with Louis, it isn’t some big explosion nor is it a passing thought. It’s just something that is always there and it reminds him once when they are curled together in a hospital bed.

“Louis.”

Louis hums, breathing out through his nose. “Harry.”

“Have you ever... Has there ever been something you really wanted to do and you just couldn’t? For whatever reason. And it’s like something’s got hold of your bones, forcing you down.” A bated pause. “I’m...not explaining this well.”

“No, no... I understand, Harry.” Louis fumbles an arm through the bed sheets to grasp Harry’s wrist, tucking his fingers around the bones and skin to let the warmth soak through. “Everything kind of stops dead and you literally can’t do anything. I’ve, yeah. I’ve felt that before.”

Harry cracks his neck into the pillow and watches his breath crease the casing. “When?”

“When I first realised I wanted you, more than being mates. It was terrifying, honestly. You had no idea and no one else knew and I buzzed with those feelings for far too long. Years, probably—I wanted you long before anything happened with us, H.”

Reflecting on the years gone by, too fast and too slow equally, as if at one end of the world someone is pressing the stop button on a bus and the driver is too caught up to stop at the other. Memories whir like a carnival ride, spinning, slips of clarity. Clarity involves moments and Harry isn’t ready to think of the world in moments quite yet—that can wait until the whole timeline is too painful to bear with no one to share that weight.

If they could have one day back, Harry would wish for one when they were figuring out what being together meant; when the sky was blue, clean like a fresh painting, calming and so serene to the foreground of stumbling tongues and nervous fingers; when Louis’ quirked grin had butterflies erupting from Harry’s pores in vibrant pinks, giddily untainted. Something about those times, learning this new side of Louis, never fails in letting their troubles fall away, if for a moment of peace. Something about images of them as boys tripping through love like a runaway fairytale, a prince and an angel leaving the kingdom behind to explore the forests and villages, staring into lakes that reflect so clearly it is like looking through glass. Leaves in their hair, dirt-smudged cheeks and knights chasing after them, overpowered by an intimacy unattainable in castle walls.

With a heart so open, Harry understands the beauty of those days past. Louis snuggles into his neck with a yawn, nuzzling the skin just where it makes Harry shiver.

It is almost as impossible to grow an intimacy surrounded by polished floors and cool blue walls as it is in metaphor. And yet, somehow, irises climb through the grout and bloom with morning glory vines to create an enchanted scene with a view of the too-thin curtains and twilight settling in, bashful like a fond farewell. Somewhere between dawn and sunrise or sunset and dusk, a slice of time is endless and that is enough.

It has to be.

***

The last time they don’t talk to each other for a week is the week Louis forgets Harry. Harry comes every day, several times, and doesn’t say anything at all. He just looks at Louis and hopes that his eyes will light up.

Unfortunately, they don’t. Not for eight days of Louis quirking his head and squinting suspiciously at Harry before he beams, flirty. Eight days of Harry’s breath-held, wrists tied, suffocating visits to a man he’s seen near every day for most of his life who doesn’t remember a thing about him.

And it’s been eight days and Harry’s turning to leave, the last visit of the day. The sun streams in, a rare sunset of red bleeding into orange, bathing the room. That warmth scattering over his back as he turns, when Louis croaks, “H, do you think you’re gonna leave me alone, you bastard. I have a tumour, you know.”

Harry turns around and he laughs, relief and overwhelming joy and, fuck, _fuck_. He’s so giddy with his happiness that his face scrunches up and he almost hyperventilates. Louis doesn’t know why he’s so happy but he grins all the same, patting his sheets.

***

The last time they take a trip to the beach, Miss Naru smiled and pushed them out the door before the other doctors caught wind of what was going on. Louis grins, eyes as blue as the ocean they’re heading to and sparkle the same as the glimmer on the water.

Their youth reinvigorated, children and grandchildren along for the scheme, everyone piles into their cars and drives. With Louis on seizure meds, he’s okay to be out without risk—he complains to Harry about not being allowed to drive and Harry rolls his eyes, reaching over to flick his ear with a smirk. Never mind Louis vomiting with fear every morning, the tacky mess of words tumbling off his tongue when he didn’t mean any of them, and the way he cowers ever so slightly when he has to go back to that room. Naru says he really doesn’t have to stay at the hospital but it’s much safer for him to stay nights at the hospital, with the rapid growth rate of his tumour.

Louis’ begun questioning how much he wants to be safe and how much he’d rather be asleep at home.

 

The beach, the ocean, the sea. Whatever the name is; whatever it isn't. It provides them with an adventure. It provides Louis with one of the best days of his life.

Harry is a different person with the sand between his toes and the salt of the sea on his tongue. The wind whips his hair free of his face and he is beautiful, he sparkles and glistens and shines brighter than the stars within all the galaxies scientists still don’t know about. Until then, Louis has to admit he hadn’t realised how caged they’ve all been since it hit the five-month mark. But this Harry is new and alive, ocean-deep and clean. Refreshed.

Louis and Harry go in the water first, freezing their blood with its chill while everyone laughs, free. Spencer and Calen’s poetry book, Izar with the bag of hats and sunscreen and towels and a huge grin, Ethel digging her toes in the sand with clear giggles, Aya burying Ethel’s legs and making a moat around her aunts, Monique standing with a camera around her neck taking a stream of photographs to arrest the memories in the making, Olivia ready to pop on her towel bemoaning pregnancy (Monique smirks), Alice tucked onto her mum’s towel making sandcastles with her uncle Calen, Calen sandcastle-ing with Alice and being made to do the trips for wet sand, Nina talking to Olivia about pregnancy woes while deepening Aya’s moat.

Louis takes it all in.

Then Harry splashes him and he swallows some of the water, coughing as he laughs and tries to splash Harry back. Their laughs turn to giggles that ricochet off the water and disperse like a warm summer wind.

Later, much later, the pair are quiet, simply sitting and breathing on a shared towel. Harry’s hand in Louis’ between them. Louis is fine with breathing, the love of his life warm against his side.

Suddenly, like a snap-shot, Harry kisses Louis. He kisses him and is soft, salty and damp. Harry’s lips burn and it feels so new.

In the distance, the sun raises its glass high and waits for the clink of other stars. A drink, a missing cog in the machine of their will fitting into place. Not that they notice. Not that they should notice, caught in each other’s breaths as though this kind of living is a new world and they’re the founders, the townspeople, the frozen lake on fire.

When the sun went down, they walked along the sand with fingers laced. Vines and ropes bound to a bollard on the dock above the sea, keeping the ships from drifting away. They are the ships and they are the waves licking greedily at their sides; they are everything about the seascape scene.

Olivia waddles with Louis to the cars when it is too late and all the children are tired out from the long day. The adults are tired out too but they must do as parents and endure it while the kids snore from the backseat. Calen pulls up beside them, Spencer pushing Izar to stumble away with a laugh, Ethel tugging his hand and Aya asleep on his hip. Harry walks on ahead with Monique and Nina, who carries Alice.

“Do you think you really deserve this?” Calen asks abruptly, careful in the last dregs of light.

Olivia says, “Calen, please.”

But Louis... “No, it’s okay. I couldn’t say, Calen, really. Maybe there’s a bigger plan, maybe I’m just unlucky, but none of that matters. Despite it all, I’m still glad we’re here.” He shares a watery grin with his three children who are all listening raptly—Olivia has a hand to her mouth, Spencer’s reaching for Calen’s hand and Calen nods. “I would never trade this for a different life. Never. I want you all to know that. I don’t care what might have happened to me otherwise. I would do it all over again exactly the fucking same to end up here.”

“Jesus,” Spencer breathes, stunned. He laughs, shaking his head. “I’m so bloody glad you’re our dad.”

 _Me too_ , Louis thinks, looking up at the stars for guidance. _Me too_.

***

The last time they sleep together it’s on the too-soft hospital beds with their cream sheets smelling of disinfectant and lavender.

Harry’s been sitting in the chair next to the bed for five days in a row, not moving except to go to the toilet, shower and get food.

Louis watches him, because he can't sleep when he knows he’s dying (and that’s ridiculous, isn't it, because everyone’s wasting every second dying, and even before Louis knew he had a tumour he could sleep just fine knowing that when he woke up he’d be a few hours closer to being dead). He watches Harry toss and turn in the chair and notices how pale his skin’s become. With his deteriorating condition, Harry’s been refusing to spend the night in the hospital bed next to Louis in case he does something or something happens and he’s in the way and Louis won’t be saved. Of course, Louis’ tried to dispel those notions but Harry can be stubborn and he falls asleep again and again in that chair.

It’s nearing two a.m. and Louis’ finally getting tired, eyes drooping when he stops focusing on Harry’s features. It only takes a second of thought before Louis taps Harry’s shoulder. He’s awake instantly, blinking bleary-eyed and cautious in the dark. “Lou?”

“Harry, love, come up here on the bed with me. I’m sure the nurses won’t mind.”

In this sleep-deprived state, Louis’ voice sounds rough and must translate to something different in Harry’s ears, because his eyes go infinitely soft and he nods. It’s a miracle they both fit on there still but that might be because Louis and Harry are pressed against each other as closely as paint on paper, the artist at last content with their work. Louis is preventing Harry from falling off with a hand curled tight around his waist, resting over the swell of his tummy and fingers digging in.

Harry still has those long, spidery limbs that stretch everywhere and his feet are so close to going over the bottom of the bed that he bends his legs and arches his back into Louis’ front. Louis kicks a leg between Harry’s two and the material of their pajamas rub, Harry’s ridiculously fluffy bed-socked feet curving over Louis’.

The sleep is the worst either has had in years but Louis decides if he were to die overnight, it wouldn’t be a bad place to spend his last moments.

***

The last time Louis sees his children, his children in law and his grandchildren, he remembers all of their names except one. He remembers Spencer with Izar and their daughters Ethel and Aya; he remembers Olivia with Monique with their daughter Alice; he remembers Calen and Nina, tripping over each to say hello. The only person he doesn’t remember is a person he’s never met before.

It’s William. Louis’ middle name. Olivia’s in a hospital gown, complaining light-heartedly about the nappy she has to wear with this sweet, innocent child in her arms. He's tiny and has flushed rose cheeks, chubby and moody when he wakes.

Louis holds him for the first and the last time at three o’clock on a Sunday afternoon. Miss Naru steps out, assuring them they’ll be fine. It’s setting dusk, clouds of emporium rose and old-fashioned love against the dreamy gaze of a silky moon and the evening symphony. Green avenue forestry crowds the window through which the world becomes magic. Louis remembers holding Spencer for the first time, Olivia’s deafening screams, Calen’s clover gold eyes staring at him. The most profound moments come when least expected, but William cries like his mother and Louis knew this was coming.

His sisters and their families have already been, Robin and Dan staying for a full hour after the others had to leave. Now, now it is everyone he and Harry have loved and guided and grown.

They all crowd around the tiny hospital room. When the clock turns to six, everyone says their own goodbyes and Louis’ face doesn’t dry. Ethel doesn’t understand what is happening, nor do Alice or Aya—the three jump onto his bed and hug him goodbye anyway. Ethel kisses his nose and giggles when he does it back. He loves his girls so much, it’s almost the hardest to say goodbye to their unknowing faces.

Calen is the first to say goodbye. He hugs Louis as hard as he can, breathing into his neck as the tears spill over and he shivers, in so much pain it’s unbearable. Calen’s his last baby, his sweet little boy with powerful words and thousands of bridges to cross before he reveals himself. Calen with his rare loves and enduring depth of his being. He whispers, “I’m going to be okay, Dad. Promise. I’ll just take a while.”

Louis laughs, throat catching. “Be good for your Pa, Calen. I love you, Cal. I...”

He starts crying and he tries to shake it away but Calen digs his fingers in tightly and breathes, “I love you too.”

Nina hugs him when Calen lets go, and reassures him, “I’ll take care of him, Lou.” Eir grin is wet but present when e kisses his cheek and goes to stand with Calen by that magician’s window.

Monique steps forward, arms around Louis’ neck more forcefully than he’d have thought. She says, “I’m really going to miss you, old man.”

“Monique, please,” he jokes quietly. “Not on my death bed. My name is Louis, would it kill you to learn it?”

She shoves at him, laughing. Her eyes are red and weary. “Watch over us all when you’re gone, okay? Make sure we all get on.”

“Don’t mourn me too hard, love,” Louis says, hugging her again before she has to take William from Harry, who watches from the bed.

Olivia is sobbing, hair matted and face red and she is so beautiful. Louis can’t believe he’s not going to see her ever again after today. She doesn’t move and so he has to walk to her, slow and drained as his energy leaks into these goodbyes. Olivia doesn’t say anything when he takes her in his arms, just lets herself be held. His little girl, so fragile. Her hospital gown crinkles between them and Louis smooths a hand over her hair.

It doesn’t take a fragment of these precious moments before she croaks out, “This is it, huh?”

“Seems that way, Liv.”

“Thank you,” Olivia blurts out, shifting back to grab his hands and look directly in his eyes. Visions of her through the years flood him and she smiles like she knows. Her face is solemn even with the smile, serious and sad. “Thank you.”

Izar is brief and has a desperate cling, but a smile like honey graces his face. It’s sweet and liquid love for this man who has become his father, who has been in his life almost since the beginning. Odd as it may be, Izar means an entirety of worlds to Louis that even he can’t speak. Izar holds Louis tightly and wonders, “What does it feel like?”

Words are chosen carefully now. “It feels quiet. Like, you’ve wanted quiet forever and finally, at last, it’s yours.”

Izar graciously pulls back first, eyes warm.

Spencer. Louis’ first. He stands slouched against the wall, hands tucked into his pockets. Thirty-eight years old and his face is still soft, and he looks remarkably like he’s still sixteen with aching bones and bumbling through the world. Louis can’t understand what expressions are on his face but he understands Spencer’s stuttering steps and fragile grip on Louis’ frame when he finally reaches him.

“Spence,” Louis says, softly.

“I’m so proud to be your son. You have made such a difference in my life and I haven’t the slightest want to know what I would have been without you. Dad, you are my hero. When I was young I only wanted to be like you because you were so amazing, so strong. I can’t express how much I love you, Dad. I...” His voice shakes and, fuck it, Louis constricts him in a boa-tight hug and holds on for the finish. “I love you.”

And here is the part where everybody comes back in for a group hug, even the little munchkins squirming into the middle to wrap around someone’s legs. Here is the part where the movie ends, the lights go out— _Cut!_ The actors leave the set, creating empty spaces from empty spaces, and step into the real world. Tears are dried with makeup sponges, another take, children back to their parents.

Instead, here is the part where nobody breathes properly as the sun sets and they all live Louis’ last night alive.

They leave and they don’t come back.

This is the last time he remembers their names, and not long after he forgets their existences too.

Harry is the last person he remembers, in the end.

***

The last time Louis thinks about something other than Harry is when he hears, “Frida Kahlo is my inspiration, mother, and I don’t care that she had a unibrow,” in an animated conversation from the people outside of his room.

It’s late, almost twelve.

The name reminds Louis of a time when he was in school and a girl in his class had prepared a speech about Frida Kahlo. How she asked him which quote he thought was better: “Take a lover who looks at you like maybe you are magic,” or, “I hope the exit is joyful—and I hope never to return.” How Louis had laughed and said neither.

Louis thinks now, as his heart beats steady but too slow and as warm, calloused hands grip his own, that he wishes he told her both.

***

The last time they hug, it’s probably the easiest hug of them all.

Harry’s arms go around Louis’ waist and Louis’ arms go around Harry’s neck and he clings for dear life. Louis’ breaths come harshly and he’s so fucking exhausted, holding on. Harry supports him and makes it easier, eases the pain and the fear and the cramped muscles from clenching his hands, his jaw.

It is not as hard to let go as it was to take hold and Harry eases him down into the pillows. A tear drips from Harry’s nose and makes Louis laugh, startled, as it hits his cheek. Harry rolls his eyes and kisses it away, smoothing his thumb over Louis’ cheek afterwards.

***

The last time they kiss, Miss Naru tells them she’s going home.

Harry freaks out shortly after, wondering how so much time can go by and how it did and where it all went. His hands shake in his lap; his breaths are sharp inhales and wobbly exhales.

Louis doesn’t know what to do because he won’t be alive to see the sunrise. He’s so puzzled and confused and wanting so much that he can't have that he starts to cry. They aren’t large, messy tears or shuddering sobs. His tears are simply silent and filled to the brim with every emotion he’s ever felt. His lungs are going to burst if he doesn’t breathe soon.

Harry moves forward then, and aligns their mouths with ease, slotted perfectly together like puzzle pieces but yet not at all.

Dry, silk-soft and slow kisses traded between them. It sets fireworks off in Louis’ belly, fireworks that remind Louis of the New Year he won’t see. Louis lets his soul fill his mouth and as he kisses Harry it slips out and pours down his throat. It settles sticky like honey on Harry’s heart.

When they pull away, mouths pink and damp in the midnight light of the moon, Louis sighs gently.

He breathes, “Harry.”

“Louis?”

“If I had a choice between a million dollars and getting your ball when we first met, I’d take the million dollars and buy you a new ball.”

Harry laughs, balmy, filtered. “You’re insane.”

“Sorry about dying, though.”

“Don’t be.”

***

The last time they say _I love you_ and mean it as in goodbye, they feel helpless.

Harry’s eyes are aged and tired. They’re also wet and red but Louis doesn’t register that, not really. Harry opens his mouth and nothing but air comes out so he presses his lips back together and pretends he didn’t open it at all.

Louis opens his mouth instead and says, “I’m scared for you, angel.” His voice is raspy, worn and weak but he forces the words out and they scrape along his throat and leave a sour taste on his tongue. It’s not like they didn’t know they’d get here, and a heavy feeling is settling into his body. He’d call it that weight before sleep, before you are swallowed by lazy lights and worlds without maps to guide you anywhere but the one ingrained in your heart guiding you home. For Louis, he thinks that map inside of him leads nowhere but this beautiful man sitting next to him with his silvery hair and his fairy-dusted skin, shimmery like glitter and as clear as a Nevadan sky. His own personal compass, leading him home every time.

Harry’s voice is fond when he answers, “You look tired, princess. Please don’t worry about me, I’ll be fine.”

Louis nods. He swallows passed the lump in his throat and lets his eyes flutter shut for a moment. Harry’s gasp makes him open them again and fresh tears are falling from Harry’s eyes. Louis wonders why, when he looks like Disney royalty, Harry was not dubbed ‘princess’.

He gazes at Harry and decides it is because someone so ethereal is clearly sent from the heavens.

“I love you,” Harry says, sudden. It is fierce in the quiet. Like this is his last chance and he doesn’t want to miss it.

“I love you too, but I’m so tired, Harry,” Louis shares, quietly, as if someone might overhear this delicate intimacy.

“You’ve fought so hard, love. If you need to rest, it’s okay. I’ll be here, always,” Harry mumbles softly, Louis’ hand in the space between his two. Their rings click when he shifts his fingers, reassuring.

Louis smiles, face creasing with this gentle joy. He feels serene.

Eyelids fluttering, he says, “See you soon, angel.”

***

The last time Louis sees Harry he’s crying and he’s still the prettiest thing Louis’ ever seen.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading! tip: names of paint colours make for wonderful descriptors. 
> 
> kudos, comment, etc.. please. I love y'all so knowing how you feel means a lot
> 
> hmu at seasideghoul on tumblr if u want to ask smthn or complain, I don't mind. love you


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